Page 107 of Twisted Heathens

Phoenix begins munching on snacks, snuggling up to her and making sure I’m watching. The asshole clearly has a death wish, I’ll hospitalise him if he keeps playing up.

“Touch her again and I won’t be accountable for what happens,” I warn.

“She isn’t your fucking property. Besides, she wasn’t complaining earlier. You’re not the only one that cares about Brooklyn. Time to face the facts,” Phoenix replies smugly.

The movie plays and my body begins to relax with the beer, every sip soothing my ceaseless rage. I manage to avoid breaking the blue-haired wanker’s legs. Even when he falls asleep and joins the snoring dog pile in the bed. I’m counting that as a win.

She’s still fucking mine though.

Thirty-Five

Brooklyn

Crazy by LOWBORN

Do you ever stop to think about how the past defines you?

Most people don’t. They just shake it off and move on.

I’ve never been like that. I can remember every event that led me right here. Blow by blow, slowly chipping away at my sanity, gradually adding to the expanding mosaic of my fragile mind. Every memory, twisted secret and filthy sin.

As the clock strikes eight o’clock and the final week of my life begins, I stare up at the ceiling in contemplation. This is it. The end that I’ve been waiting for all this time. Why does the thought of dying hurt so bad?

I dress methodically, movements stiff like a robot. Two outfits lay on my bed. One for each remaining day before it’s show time. The final ensemble is my favourite shirt and jeans that I intend to wear tomorrow. I have a plan, Phoenix’s belt lies stolen beneath my mattress. That’s the back-up option if I can’t steal one of Eli’s blades. I know exactly where he keeps them.

I should be ashamed, stealing from them to end my own life. It will only twist the knife further when I’m gone, but I’ve never proclaimed to be a good person. Not once.

I slip my Docs on and manage a smile as I contemplate the bright pink material. Shame they can’t come with me. I’ll be sure to dispose of all my secrets. Journal, photos and any other personal effects. Can’t have the vultures picking at my corpse after.

Leaving the dorms and heading across the quad, I peer about to ensure none of the guys are around. Dinner last night was weird, nobody knew quite what to say after Friday night’s antics and me sneaking out long past midnight to hide from them.

Eli is even more broken than I thought. I can’t fucking stand the thought that I’ll only make that hurt worse, but the pain of living is far heavier. There are no easy choices anymore, just shitty options and a tonne of guilt.

Checking in at reception, I wait to be escorted down to Lazlo’s office for my weekly shot. The corridors seem even gloomier today, whispered moans and cries escaping from behind the numerous doors. A dinner lady I recognise from the cafeteria takes the trolley from door to door, accompanied by a guard to unlock the solitary cells and slide a tray in.

My eyes land on a skeletal, ghostly white body strapped to a cot inside. An IV line is attached and feeding the necessary fluids to suspend life. His hair is long and unkempt, like he’s been locked away from society for a very long time. Our eyes lock through the door and I quickly look away, suddenly afraid.

That’ll be me if I don’t get the fuck out of here.

“Brooklyn! Good morning,” Lazlo greets once we get to his office, bustling me inside as he checks his watch. “9.50. You’re early, I’m impressed. Just can’t wait, eh?”

“What are you doing to the people here?” I bark at him.

“In solitary?”

I nod tightly, sitting stiff in my usual chair. Gooseflesh breaks out across my skin as he retrieves the dose from the mini fridge, crystal clear fluid dripping into the syringe. Lazlo eyes it intently, tapping the glass to remove any air bubbles.

“They are here for many reasons, Brooklyn. Poor behaviour, violence, suicide attempts. Just to name a few. You spent two weeks here yourself, or did you forget?”

I shudder, fighting back the dark cloud of dread. “I didn’t forget. But it’s all… a bit blurred.”

Lazlo leans on his desk, legs crossed and smiling wide. I contemplate his thick grey hair and glasses, framing the mind of a man that thinks punishment is acceptable for those mentally unwell. Fucking shrinks, I’ll never get over my disdain for them.

“You were acutely unwell. That’s why it’s blurred,” he answers simply.

That’s a lie, my mind whispers to me. He’s lying out of his ass.

I flinch back into my chair, eyes squeezing shut to push the voice aside. That damned needle is coming for me and I’m irrationally fearful, even more than before. What’s changed? I’m not going to be here for next week’s shot. It doesn’t matter what he puts in me.

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