Page 32 of Exile
I lurch forward, gripping the pen tight in my fist. There's a sickening crunch and squelch of flesh as it embeds its way into his hand, sticking out.
Whitface lets out a loud yell, other hand immediately ripping out the pen as blood flows from the wound onto his desk, soaking the annulment paperwork. The guard, unprepared too, latches onto me, pinning my arms behind my back as I'm lifted off the chair and pulled away from the desk.
"You pathetic little—"
"What?" I cut Whittingham off. "What am I?"
There's no answer as he holds his hand against his expensive suit, staring daggers at me. Fury flashes back at me, his tone crisp and laced with pain. "Take her to solitary confinement," he directs the guard.
I don't cut my gaze from him as I'm dragged backwards, a snarky smile on my face. The idea of solitary confinement has always been terrifying, but I'm too pumped up on adrenaline to care.
I'm still learning things about myself every day. Even after all I've been through at Lilydale, if you asked me last week how I felt about harming another person, I'd probably say I hated the idea. I'm so used to being the one hurt that I could never picture myself inflicting pain on another. But something about the smug look on his face, the way they are trying to strongarm me into turning my back on my loved ones, just unleashed…darkness.
There's no regrets. Only… relief.
The office starts to vanish from view as my shoes whine against the flooring, my body being dragged heavily toward the patient side of the facility. But I keep my gaze fixed onWhittingham until he slams the door closed, cursing and groaning.
It's then I realize I'm laughing out loud, the sound bouncing around the walls. The guard tenses behind me, a little panicked as he tries to keep a firm grasp on me while punching in the code and swiping the card I saw him grab from Whittingham.
I don't bother to assist him by walking normally. Consider this your cardio workout for the day, champ.
The high-pitched nail-on-chalkboard sound from the heels of my feet draws attention, both Dr. Markel and Dr. Smith poking their heads out of their offices as we pass. Equally horrified gazes find my face, and all I can do is throw Dr. Smith a wink.
"She has blood on her face!" the old, sing-songy doctor exclaims, near stuttering in some medical fashion of panic.
Huh—must have flung on there from Whittingham ripping the pen out. The thought doesn't freak me out as much as I expect. In fact, when the bane of my existence, Dr. Elsher steps out of his room to also see what all the commotion is about, I take advantage of it.
Catching his eye, I cock an eyebrow, smirking at him.
Psychoanalyze me now, fuckface.
Unlike his colleagues, he's not horrified or surprised. If anything, he sneers in response at my presence, and I flip him the bird happily.
Grey might be onto something here about the whole blood situation. Did that asshole's DNA accidentally soak into my pores, infecting me with all those traits that they love and use to hurt us? Or maybe—just, maybe—I'm fed up with being used.
What gives them the right to fuck with me? To dangle freedom in front of my face in exchange for stabbing someone in the back? They are nothing but cowards in expensive attire, hiding behind a wall of muscle.
"Ow!"
It slips out before I realize, my heels hitting the concrete steps heavily as I'm dragged into the darkness. The guard just grunts in reply, panting and probably contemplating his life choices after hauling me from one side of the facility to the other. Well, surely he knew it wouldn't be an easy job.
He repositions himself, curling an arm around my neck, forcing me into a chokehold while trying to open the cell door single handedly.
Fuck him too.
I dig my nails into his arm, doing my best to create semi-crescent markings through the black sleeves that poke out of the tactical gear. He squeezes harder, huffing in frustration before finally getting the door open.
Without giving my existence a second thought, he flings me into the darkness, my knees hitting the hard ground. I'm a little embarrassed by the yelp and groan of pain thatemerges from my mouth, but he's already gone, the door slamming shut behind him.
Shit—Theo wasn't kidding when he said it was dark in here. I can't see anything, not even my own hands. The so-called flickering light doesn't appear to be on and as quickly as it appeared, the adrenaline leaves. I shiver, softly at first before it starts growing more aggressively.
Using my hands, I feel my way around, expecting a bed. There's a thin mattress on the floor but no bed frame, and I maneuver myself until I'm perched on top of it with my back pressed against the wall.
Checking to make sure there's no blinking red lights, I extract my cell. I need to alert Grey and Theo to the situation, but, of course, there's no signal down here. The light provides a little relief and I turn on the torch function, inspecting my surroundings.
Solitary confinement is smaller than my room, the walls painted black—at least, that's what it looks like even with the torch light. Large metal pipes crisscross on the roof, leading to God knows where.
The hard wall is scratched to pieces from my betters before me, scuff marks and stains of blood smeared on the wall. There's even a questionable larger stain about face level, and I shiver thinking about the idea that someone headbutted themselves into a mess in here.
