Page 17 of Lunatic
Grabbing my shirt, I walk to the door and, before I have a chance to react, Hugo stabs me in the fucking neck with a needle. One step forward, three steps back. Within seconds, I begin to stumble, as the world fades to black.
I’ve been locked in this room for days, with no end in sight. It’s a small cell with bars, like an actual prison, and a nurse sits outside guarding me for most of the day. The only time she leaves is when the doctor comes to torture me. The first day, I was brought a sandwich for dinner. The second, it was half a sandwich. Now, I sit here staring at the smallest piece of food I’ve ever been given. It’s a piece of bread with bologna, and is only about the size of my thumb. I asked for water the day I was brought in here, but was told I’d get none. The toilet is theonly source of water in this room. I swore I’d never drink out of a damn toilet, but I’m coming close to breaking down, and drinking like a dog, as the dehydration intensifies. Is this how he’s going to kill me? The room has a small cot on the floor, and a noose hanging from the ceiling. I thought he may hang me, but as the days pass, I realize it’s likely here as some kind of psychological mind fuck. Anybody staring at that thing, while locked up for days on end, would wonder if that’s his end game. Or maybe I’m supposed to do it myself. Is that what this asshole wants? For me to kill myself? Or is it just another mind game?
I’m still trying to figure out how I ended up in this cell. It’s pretty clear at this point that he wanted me here. Me being accused of killing Sullivan was just the perfect opportunity, but I don’t understand it. He was a good psychiatrist until he wasn’t. Dr. Martin was always concerned about the abuse he knew I endured on a daily basis. Nearly every week he was handing me pamphlets, with different places I could go, domestic violence shelters for women. It truly seemed like he cared about my wellbeing until I ended up here, and realized it was all part of a sick game.
Sitting in this room for however long has led to a lot of thinking about how this all began.
Sullivan.
Without him, none of this would be possible. Nobody believes me when I say I didn’t kill him, because most people in my positionwould have. Sullivan was always controlling, but when we were dating, he wasn’t violent with me. He would make it clear what his expectations were with the house, as well as how I dressed. I’m an idiot, and thought it was normal for him to dictate how I looked when we were in public. After all, he wasn’t just a pediatric surgeon, he was famous. Adored. He didn’t need a sloppy wife to dull his image. Even when I made him angry, hedidn’t raise a hand to me. It didn’t start when we were dating. It started on our wedding night.
“Bianca, open the fucking door.”
I have no idea why he sounds angry. We have only been married for six hours, and he told me to get ready for bed.
Opening it, I stare at him in confusion, thinking something is wrong. He hands me a black scrap of lingerie.
“Put this on.”
I stand in front of him, in a cute bridal teddy that I bought specifically for tonight, and am instantly offended that he doesn’t like it.
“You don’t like this? I bought this to wear for you tonight,” I complain, for the first and last time in our marriage.
He reaches up and wraps his hand around my throat, squeezing hard, and cutting off my air supply, as he slams my head against the granite countertop. I claw at his hand, trying to remove it, but I don’t even come close.
Sullivan doesn’t let go until he makes better use of his hands, and wraps my hair around his fist, slamming me into the granite again. This time my face hits the counter, and blood squirts from my nose.
He pulls me up, and laughs at the white fabric turning red, as he drags me into the bedroom by my hair.
Shoving me face down onto the bed, he grabs my arms and twists them forcefully behind my back, holding my wrists in one hand between my shoulder blades.
I cry out in pain, “Sullivan, stop. Please.”
He doesn’t stop. Instead, he rips the crotch of my teddy wide open, and then I hear the unbuckling of his belt, along with the sound of his zipper sliding down.
“You’re going to learn. My wife will do whatever the fuck I tell her to without question.”
My arms hurt to the point I wonder if they’re broken, when, without warning, he slams inside me, causing blood-curdling screams to tear from my chest, as he rips my virginity away. He’s an animal, with no consideration for what he’s doing to me.
I was only ever a warm body to fuck and abuse for my husband. Now it’s the same thing here. I exist for their torture. I don’t want to have a victim mentality, but it’s pretty difficult, when pain and abuse is all I’ve ever known. For two years, my psychiatrist pretended to care about my wellbeing, while he was plotting out his own nefarious plans for me. I’m so fucking tired of this shit. I wish Ihadkilled Sullivan. I should have. He deserved it.
The sound of my own heavy breathing echoes off the walls of this small room, as my hands tremble uncontrollably. Turning to the door, I yell at the nurse, who sits there with a magazine in her hand.
“I’m fucking thirsty!” I scream.
Her gaze lifts from the tabloid, and she stares at me with annoyance in her expression. Quietly, she gets up, tosses the magazine on her vacated chair, and opens my cell before entering.
“If you’re thirsty, drink your water.”
She comes over to me and wraps her hand around my hair, pulling me while I scream, and try unsuccessfully to scramble away from her. I’m getting really fucking tired of people using my hair as a weapon. She pushes my face into the cold toilet bowl.
“Drink like the ugly dog you are.”
The nurse holds my head just above the water, but I don’t doubt, if I disobey her, that she’ll shove my head under. Memories of the last time my head was submerged under waterresurface, sending a chill down my spine. Somehow, I think she’ll care even less than Raven did if she kills me.
I lap at the toilet water, as bile rises in my throat from the smell alone. Even a well- cleaned toilet has a weird smell that’s vomit inducing. This one, like every part of Wellard Asylum, is not well maintained. I close my eyes, and attempt to forget about the yellow ring around the porcelain.
I gulp the disgusting water down until she yanks my hairhard,and I land on my back, hitting my head on the concrete. I cover my face when she pulls her leg back, but it does me no good, since she stomps her foot into my stomach. I try to move, but her foot catches my face, and the taste of my own coppery blood fills my mouth. She kicks me three more times in the gut, before she walks to the door, and I crawl to the toilet, vomiting the toilet water I just drank.
