Page 16 of Sin Like the Devil

“If you’re here to gawp, feel free to fuck off.” His voice is resigned as he resumes playing the violin. “Your breathing is ruining my concentration.”

My… breathing?

“Sorry,” I mutter.

Disturbed by this strange creature, I turn on my heel and race away without a second glance. The sound of his crooning instrument hitting every last chord with finesse follows my retreating footsteps.

I return to my canvas to finish up, the sound of his music continuing. Lilting. Anguished. Hitting every note with well-timed perfection. If I wanted to, I could get a guard to heave him away for distracting me.

But I don’t.

Instead, I find myself swaying again.

Although we are both lost in our own worlds, we’re only metres apart, separated by the thin walls between us. The evocative violin music continues late into the night, long after I’ve tidied up, stacked the canvas and run out of unnecessary jobs to do.

I mentally scold myself and leave the art studio. As I pass the music room, the door left ajar, I catch another glimpse. The violinist has paused briefly, his instrument in his lap. I watch him lift the back of his hand to his nose.

He snorts up whatever is there, a relieved sigh slipping out of him. His bowed shoulders seem to perk up, and when he returns to his violin, the melody has lightened to a more joyful rhythm. I quickly turn and walk away.

Survival is a personal thing.

Sometimes, it looks a whole lot like self-destruction.

CHAPTER 4

RIPLEY

I’M NOT YOURS – THE HAUNT

“Ripley Bennet!”

Startled out of my numb daze at the sound of my name being called, I shuffle forward. The line is moving at a snail’s pace this morning. It’s always the same on Mondays, when classes and therapy sessions resume.

Harrowdean runs like any other secure unit—relying on a tried and tested combination of regimen, strict order and regular poking and prodding by the on-site clinical staff. All the usual day-to-day banalities of life on a psych ward, at least to the average Joe.

What goes on behind closed doors is a whole other ball game. One that not everyone has to bear witness to. They’re blissfully unaware of their privileged position as one of the protected. Patients too risky to be targeted, often with families and loved ones who would notice their turmoil. Not all of us have that benefit.

“Rip.” Rae nudges my shoulder. “Hurry the fuck up, would ya?”

“Alright. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

I force myself to approach the nurse’s station to collect my meds. The swaying, zombified line of patients behind me all watch with varying degrees of interest.

Some are desperate for their daily dose of sanity, while others are dragged into line by the ever-present guards. The nurse slides a small paper cup brimming with tablets through the hole in the metal grate to me.

They have to keep the pharmacy strictly under lock and key, for obvious reasons. I’ve lost count of the number of attempted break-ins I’ve witnessed. Not everyone can afford my services.

One thing Harrowdean has no shortage of are desperate bastards searching for any way to remove themselves from the chess board of life. Pills. Blades. Rope. It’s all the same to them.

A quick fix. An easy escape.

Who wouldn’t want that?

Hell, everyone heard the story about Blackwood Institute’s incident a few months ago. Gossip gets around, even behind bars. From what I hear, some asshole threw himself off the roof.

Bang.

Splat.

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