Page 9 of Monsters Like Us
Instead of heading to the elevator, I turn toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. The strand of her hair is warm against my skin, the smallest proof that she belongs to me in a way I can keep. I press it to my tongue for a second—a stupid ritual that makes it more real—then tuck it deep into my pocket where no one will see.
Possession is sometimes a slow thing. It grows in the dark, two threads braided into one. Tonight, I’ve taken the first stitch.
The rest will follow.
CHAPTER 7
Katana
I crossthe threshold of my room, and the door swings shut behind me. The hallway’s fluorescent hum drops away, swallowed by the thin walls, and suddenly the air feels too loud. My heart hammers a little faster. Routine says curl up on the bed and pretend to sleep until lights out. Newness says check the room first.
The pillow looks ordinary—one of those flat hospital things, lumpy in the middle. I notice a scrap of paper on top of it, folded once. My name is not written anywhere, just a folded note, like a dare.
I don’t want to touch it, but I do anyway.
The note is short. Two lines, sharp as a blade:
I’M WATCHING YOU.
THERE’S NO ESCAPE.
The letters are blocky, capitalized, as if whoever wrote them wanted to make sure every syllable hit. For a second, I think it’s a joke—some dumb, twisted prank—but the hair on the back of my neck prickles the same way it did in the cafeteria. A cold, low current runs through me.
Who would leave this?
My thoughts list possibilities like a roll call: other patients looking for a laugh, a guard pulling some humiliation test, Marcy trying to intimidate me. But none of it sits right.
Micah rises like a silhouette, filling my mind.
His name is a shadow in here, a hush at meal times. Marcy spat it at me like a warning; the others mutter it like a curse. He watches. He makes people break. The way he looked at me—like a man tasting a private joke—is still branded behind my eyes. He didn’t just look. He claimed me.
I fold the note, holding it in my palm like it’ll confirm my suspicions. The paper is warm against my palm. My pulse is a loud drum, echoing his name:Micah. Micah.
Part of me wants to rip it up and stomp on it until the words mean nothing. Another part wants to take it to Marcy and make her do something—drag him down the hall by his hair, make him feel genuine fear for once. But I remember the way she looked at me—not quite pity, and not quite trust. She warned me. She meant what she said about curiosity.
My fingers curl around the scrap until the paper creases. The room is small: a bed, a desk, and a small dresser bolted to the floor. The window is a rectangle of gray sky. I shove the note into the pocket of my sweatpants, trying to breathe slowly.
I walk to the small sink and turn on the water, letting the thin stream cool my hands. The sound of it should soothe me. It doesn’t. Instead, it amplifies the quiet.
My reflection in the mirror looks like a stranger: wide-eyed, too pale, my jaw tight.
The note burns a hole through my pocket.
This is silly.I’m a twenty-year-old adult. I can’t tell Marcy about the note. I’m strong and capable. Hell, I killed Ted to stop the abuse, knowing what would happen with my mom out of the picture.
Blowing out a breath, my jaw tightens with determination. I survived worse than a folded piece of paper on a pillow.
But survival doesn’t mean I’m not terrified. That’s a truth I don’t like to own.
A knock on the door makes me jump. It’s small and polite—Marcy’s knock—but it tugs at my already frayed nerves.
“You okay in there?” she calls, opening the door. Her voice is clipped. Nothing in it says comfort.
“Fine,” I answer, my voice steady on the outside. My hand slides into my pocket, my fingers closing around the note like a talisman.
“Lights out in ten,” she adds. “Room checks at midnight. Breakfast tomorrow at 8:00.” She pauses, something almost like hesitation edging her voice before she warns me, “Stay put, Katana. Don’t try anything funny.”
She exits, the door locking behind her. Her footsteps recede down the hall.
