Page 13 of Sin Like the Devil

Instead, Holly is haunting me.

I can feel salty droplets clinging to my body in the darkness of my bedroom. Scrubbing my face, I drag in a breath. She isn’t here. I’m alone in my room at Harrowdean, far from the clinging horrors of last year.

Being turned over to the care of Priory Lane was the most terrifying moment I’ve ever experienced. Far scarier than losing my family, being confronted by my own delusions or even the resignation in my uncle’s eyes as I shared my diagnosis.

It was the moment I lost all control.

My life no longer belonged to me.

The moment I stepped out of Uncle Jonathan’s town car and into the northern chill, I knew my life was over. Three-year rehabilitative program or not. There was no coming back from being practically disowned by your only remaining family and forcibly confined to a psych ward.

Shoving back the bedsheets, I try to sit up but waver. My limbs are heavy and feel like they’re wrapped in cotton wool. Numbing paralysis pumps through my veins, cutting off feeling to my extremities.

Depression is a silent but deadly weight that I know all too well. It’s been a few weeks since my last down episode, but I recognise my own warning signs. The ups and downs are a regular part of my life now.

While others may feel the darkness creeping into their minds, the first thing to go is my ability to move like a normal human being. It’s the technical diving effect playing out in real time.

Just get up, Ripley.

Fucking move.

You’re in control of your own body.

But the awful truth is… I’m not. I haven’t been for a long time. My brain doesn’t belong to me; it belongs to my illness. That cruel bitch calls all the shots around here. I’m just along for the ride. Powerless to the rising tide approaching to decimate my self-control all over again.

“Come on,” I whisper weakly. “Please, just move.”

By the time I’ve worked up the will to move my leaden limbs, the sun is almost threatening to rise. I struggle to remain upright as I stumble through scattered art supplies to the attached ensuite, hands outstretched to stop myself from falling.

The plastic surface of the mirror above the sink distorts my reflection as I wait for the shower to heat up. I’ve always kept my hair short. More often than not, half the tight curls are shoved up in a sloppy knot and secured with a paintbrush, leaving stray, tawny-brown ringlets to tickle my jawline.

My wide, round, hazel eyes are more green than brown, framed by thick lashes that cast shadows across my lightly freckled cheeks and slightly upturned button nose. I straighten my silver septum ring with a sigh then step into the shower.

It takes scrubbing my ink-swirled skin to within an inch of its life with my favourite papaya body wash to remove the remnants of my nightmare. Holly sometimes infiltrates my dreams, but those two demons haven’t shown their faces for a while.

Teeth gritted, I scrub hard enough to leave dark purple lines from my nails. Bastards. Bastards. Bastards. My mental chant accompanies my scrubbing, on and on, until I’m bright-red and aching from my own bodily assault. But at least I can feel my limbs again.

Making myself step out of the spray, I wince at the sting of cool air against my abused skin. I’m not like Rae. Pain isn’t my thing. But hating every inch of myself sure as hell is, and a violent shower helps tame the thoughts of self-loathing long enough to reconstruct my mask each day.

I’ve convinced myself that if one day I scrub hard enough, I’ll be able to rip the very skin from my bones and tear free from this carcass holding me prisoner. If I leave this body behind, perhaps I can leave my sins with it.

Until then, I must live with the monstrous person I’ve become. Some days that’s easier than others. I can slip into a human skin suit and play the role I’ve been given. But other times, it’s excruciating.

After drying off, I grab my discarded grey sweatpants from the floor and throw on a loose, acid-wash t-shirt. With each breath, I piece my careful façade back together. Another section of my armour is replaced, layer by layer, until the vulnerable version of Ripley is safely hidden.

The world can never know she exists.

Weakness would be my downfall.

By the time I grab my keycard and throw on a hoodie, my familiar, hard-faced scowl is safely back in place. I’ve got a date with a to-go breakfast and the unfinished canvas sitting in Harrowdean’s studio. Aside from the weekly art therapy sessions, I usually get the place to myself.

It’s early enough for only the non-sedated patients to be braving the cafeteria. The usual breakfast rush doesn’t hit until at least nine o’clock when the previous night’s court-sanctioned sedation inevitably wears off for everyone else.

Down the winding staircase that descends from the fifth floor of the east wing, the lavish decor and glimmering chandeliers fail to impress me. That’s how they suck you in—a luxurious, well-polished exterior, crafted to conceal the truth.

That doesn’t stop the private sponsors from lavishing the institute with donations so they can proudly pronounce themselves as mental health advocates. It’s all shallow. Performative. No one actually cares if we’re rehabilitated or not, as long as we’re safely out of sight, and therefore, out of mind.

“Langley,” I greet stiffly.

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