Page 11 of Monsters Like Us
The guard at the end of the hall barks at another patient, distraction ruining the moment. I lean closer, just enough for my shoulder to graze hers. I whisper in her ear, “There’s no escaping what’s already ours.”
She inhales sharply and jerks away like my words burn. She flees down the hallway, not looking back. But her rigid shoulders and uneven steps show I’ve already crawled under her skin.
I watch until she disappears into the cafeteria.
Then I smile.
She doesn’t understand yet.
But she will.
CHAPTER 9
Katana
My hands are still shakingwhen I reach the cafeteria. I grip the tray harder than necessary, like white-knuckling it will keep me from trembling. The line is short this morning, a blur of eggs, toast, and oatmeal dumped onto trays. My stomach growls, but my thoughts keep circling back to his words.
“You read the note.”
He said it so casually, as if he’d handed me a flower instead of a threat. If he wasn’t the one who wrote it, how else would he know? The idea that someone else slipped inside my room seems impossible now. Micah Morrow had to be the one.
But I didn’t ask. I froze, my voice failing me. Shocked that he was speaking to me.
I heard the whispers that Micah doesn’t speak. Therapists, psychiatrists, and even a few rare, brave patients have tried, but none have been successful. Yet, I did nothing, and he spoke to me. Twice.
I find a corner table and take a seat, my eyes scanning the room. Waiting. Expecting him to walk in and stare. To claim another piece of me without lifting a finger.
Every time the door opens, my pulse spikes.
But he never shows up.
His absence isn’t relief. It’s worse. It’s waiting for a storm you know is on the horizon.
One I can’t begin to prepare for.
Group therapy is awful.
The circle of chairs smells faintly of bleach and nerves. Patients slump or twitch, eyes darting around the room. The therapist, a man with a too-wide smile and glasses that keep slipping down his nose, calls on each person.
When it’s mine, my throat closes. “I’m Katana Morgan,” I manage, my voice small.
“And why are you here, Katana?” His tone is gentle, coaxing.
My fingers knot in my lap. I can feel eyes on me from every side, expectant, waiting for me to spill the filth of my life for them to pick apart. My breath catches. If I tell them—if I say out loud what I did—they’ll look at me the way they look athim.
They’ll think I’m a monster. Just like Micah Morrow.
“I don’t want to share,” I whisper.
The therapist pauses. His glasses slip again, and he pushes them back up with one finger. “That’s okay, Katana. You can share when you’re ready.”
But the way some of the others glance at me, like I’m already hiding something awful, makes me want to crawl outof my skin.
By the time therapy ends,my nerves are frayed. We’re released, an hour of free time ahead. The guards stand near the doors like watchmen. Some patients shuffle to the common room while others go to the courtyard.
I choose outside.
The air bites colder than I expect, sharp and damp, but it feels clean in my lungs compared to the staleness inside. The courtyard is surrounded by the same high iron fence I can see from my window, topped with barbed wire, but at least there’s sky above me. A place to breathe.
