Page 86 of Corpse Roads

He pulls ingredients at random out of the fridge, covering the spotless kitchen in so much mess, it gives me heart palpitations. Hunter will murder the pair of us when he sees the state of it.

We discover that it is possible to burn pasta and still end up with crunchy strands of spaghetti. Apparently, this is a scientific achievement. Leighton says we should win an award for culinary masterminding.

“You really are a terrible cook,” I say between belly-hurting fits of laughter. “We can’t eat this.”

“Aren’t you hungry?” Leighton snickers.

It happens so fast, I can’t stop myself from slipping into the past. Richards has been teaching me to breathe through the flashbacks, but when they’re so intense, I’m left falling to my death.

Aren’t you hungry, sinner?

Come here and kiss daddy’s cheek.

Be a good girl and we’ll give you some dinner.

The rush of memories lance into me with such intensity, I drop the vegetable knife I was slicing an onion with. The kitchen around me melts away with each stuttered breath I take.

It’s too late to pull myself back.

The past swallows me whole.

All I can see is Mrs Michaels, an old belt in her hand, striking me over and over. Christie’s blue corpse has been dragged out of the cage, left on a thick, plastic sheet to be dismantled.

You will help me, fucking bitch!

Strike.

You disobedient little swine.

Strike.

The pain is so real, I can feel it searing my shredded skin. My younger voice fills my ears, begging for mercy. I refused to help her saw my friend’s limbs apart to get rid of.

“Harlow? Harlow?”

Someone’s shaking me, repeating this name over and over again. I don’t know why. Who am I? Who is Harlow? All I can see is the dark, cramped cell imprisoning me in hell.

Scents assault me.

Blood. Urine.

Filth. Mould.

Rotting corpses.

I’m back behind those bars, screaming for relief as time loses all meaning. Days, weeks, years. My hair grew and body weakened, but nothing else changed.

“Harlow! Talk to me, dammit.”

Tears soak my cheeks. Ice invades my extremities, trapping me in a bubble. I’m drowning. Choking. Sinking further and further out of reach. I need to call for help, but nothing comes out.

Their faces are all there. Plastered on the walls of my mind, connected by the same red cord. Every single one of them that died in that Godless place. I can’t escape them.

“I’m sorry,” I scream at the ghosts.

It isn’t enough. They don’t want an apology. My words won’t bring them back or undo the evil that stole their lives. These ghosts won’t ever leave me. Not until justice is served.

Backing into a corner, I cover my ears and squeeze my head; it feels like it might explode. I can still see them, bleeding and gasping for air, begging me with their eyes.

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