Page 3 of Sin Like the Devil

“But are you ready to tell it?”

Hesitating, years of silence hold my tongue hostage. I’ve never told my story before, and for good reason. The world feels no sympathy for people like me. Speaking up now will unleash hell upon me, but after years of torment, I’ve finally taken my therapist’s advice. I can no longer live my life in the shadows. This is how I’ll heal.

I need to exist.

I need to speak up.

I need… salvation.

Nodding cautiously, I refocus on my clenched fists. “Yes.”

“Then tell us, Ripley. What was Harrowdean?”

“For me?”

Elliot’s mouth lifts into a kind smile. “Yes.”

Trawling back through years of torrid memories, dipped in spilt blood and dusted in the substances I peddled for my own benefit, the truth is a simple admittance of guilt. I find the awful words far too easily.

“Harrowdean Manor was my kingdom to rule.”

CHAPTER 1

RIPLEY

PUNCHING BAG – SET IT OFF

Ten Years Earlier

Bipolar disorder is a fucking bitch.

Shit, sorry. I meant that to come out better. More hopeful, maybe? But you don’t need me to do that. There are plenty of others who write articles for mental health blogs and wear their stability as a badge of honour.

Fuck. Okay, too dark.

Let me start again. My brain has zero filter before a minimum of three macchiatos, and I haven’t had caffeine since the day I was taken into custody. Like a simple fucking coffee is going to make us any crazier? I’ve never heard such crap.

Anyway, I’ll amend my statement since we’re just talking between friends here. You can handle God’s honest truth, right?

Bipolar disorder is a motherfucking cunt.

Better?

Awesome.

Don’t get me wrong... The highs are high. Feverishly so. In those bright, otherworldly periods, you become a deity-like figure of supreme power and excellence. A god with all the power and almighty importance such a role would entail.

Those are the good times that doctors don’t like to advertise. When they talk about bipolar, they make it sound bad to be so high, you believe that your eyeballs are two giant marshmallows in your head, just waiting to be melted over a campfire.

But the lows?

They’re the real kicker.

I once read that when technical divers go deep into the ocean, they have to take several decompression stops on the way back up to prevent themselves from being paralysed by the pressure that’s built within their body. That’s what the lows feel like to me.

Total paralysis.

The weight of the whole world is pressing down on you—crushing, splintering, overtaking every breath until it feels like you’re attempting to breathe fire rather than air. When that pressure builds, it’s impossible to avoid the depressive stasis that follows.

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