Page 3 of Twisted Heathens

Not that it makes a difference. If they hadn’t arrested me in November, I would’ve succeeded in killing myself then. That was the next stage of my plan. The only reason I’m still alive is those damn nosy nurses in Clearview that insisted on strict supervision after the last incident.

My fingers automatically crawl up my sleeve. The scar is thick and gnarly beneath my touch, stretching right down my forearm. I stroke the skin, breathing in the reassurance.

No one can stop me this time.

I refuse to live for a second longer than I’m made to.

The hours pass painfully slow as we drive through the countryside. I completely zone out for the most of it. That happens a lot. It’s hard to stay focused when you’re drugged up to your tits on more medication than I can even keep track of. Much later, doors slam as I force my eyes open, dark shadows filling the back of the van. I can hear the two guards snickering as they stretch their bodies.

“Let’s drop this bitch off and hit the pub for a quick one, aye?”

“I could use a drink for the drive back. This place gives me the creeps anyway, all those dead eyes watching you. Reminds me of a graveyard, not a fucking hospital.”

“Don’t shit your pants, mate. The crazy bastards are locked up here for a reason.”

Paul, aka Dickhead One, opens the side door and jerks his head, beckoning me out. Once I’m standing, he flaunts a pair of familiar handcuffs.

“Really?” I huff.

“Shut up, Brooke. You know the policy.”

“You weren’t too bothered by policy when my lips were wrapped around your cock last week. And don’t fucking call me Brooke. How many times?”

He snaps the cuffs on unnecessarily tight, eyes narrowed angrily. “You keep your pretty little mouth shut about that or I’ll have to tell on you. Popping pills is a disciplinary, maybe it’ll even increase your sentence.”

“You’re the one that gave them to me, wanker,” I spit back.

I’m roughly dragged along through the car park, with Dickhead Two bringing up the rear. Both seem desperate to get rid of me, the sooner the better. I’ve always had a way of pissing off the guards, none of them ever appreciated my smart mouth. Like I care what they think anyway.

“Don’t forget my bag!” I bellow.

“I’ve got it, stupid bitch. Man, I hope I never see you again.”

“Trust me, the feeling is mutual, you ugly old bastard.”

Any further argument quickly dries up as we exit the car park, heading up a cobbled street engulfed in thick mist. The temperature’s dropped significantly between here and London, heavy storm clouds hanging low in the sky.

“Fucking Welsh gits. Man, I hate the countryside,” Paul complains.

I roll my eyes. “Drop me off and you can fuck off back then.”

He shoves me, fingers digging into my wrists as they escort me through the grounds. We reach a huge set of menacing wrought iron gates, hiding a gothic monstrosity that lies ahead. Paul shifts on his feet impatiently, punching the intercom button for attention.

“Clearview transfer here for drop-off.”

There’s a buzz in response, followed by a heavy clank as the gates swing open.

“Jesus,” I whisper under my breath.

“Welcome to paradise, sweetheart,” he goads.

Blackwood Institute is an imposing sight. It’s somewhere between a lavish cathedral and an ancient university; with spiralling towers, vibrant stained glass, and polished black stone. Willow trees dot the landscape, leaves swaying in the wind. The quickly descending mist adds to the spookiness, obscuring much of the scenery.

An uncomfortable sensation creeps down my spine, setting me on edge immediately. There’s something about this place, an inexplicable feeling that sets off mental alarm bells. I glance around for the source of my unease, but come up empty. Maybe I’m just losing it. I am hardly a poster girl for sanity.

After winding up the pathway, we pass beneath a grand archway. The familiar ornate crest is displayed at the apex, proudly announcing the institute and its date of establishment. Just in case you didn’t know that unstable delinquents lie ahead.

There are two grey-faced guards in booths either side, guarding the main entrance. As we step up, I notice the vast selection of CCTV cameras, placed at all angles. Dead black eyes blink as our presence is recorded. A short exchange of information later, we’re scanned with wand detectors and finally permitted inside. They don’t even spare me a cursory glance while checking that I’m carrying no weapons and scanning my luggage, apparently a little too used to seeing arrivals late at night in handcuffs.

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