Page 2 of Burn Like An Angel

Everyone wanted to escape this hell hole.

Here I am now, breaking back in.

Latching the curved blades around the padlock that secures the bay doors, I position myself then begin to cinch the cutters closed. It takes some manoeuvring, the rusted metal screaming in protest, loud enough to make me flinch.

Eventually, the padlock splits and falls. It thuds against the ancient concrete so loud, it feels like the metallic clank of a guillotine making impact with an exposed neck.

Lip curled, I shake off the thought. No one comes here. The security measures are fucking pathetic. I’m perfectly safe. As I ease the door open, the smell hits me.

There aren’t adequate words to describe it... A pungent, stomach-turning concoction of animal waste, mould, burnt-out fires and something inexplicable. Something sinister. Perhaps the stench of long-removed corpses or faded bloodstains.

Stashing the bolt cutters, I swap them for an industrial flashlight then step back into purgatory. My flashlight providing the only guiding light, smashed glass crunches beneath my thick-soled boots, a breadcrumb trail leading me deeper into the suffocating darkness.

All of the evidence of the atrocities committed here was removed when CSI’s swarmed, and the infamous Sabre Security picked over the remains. In fact, there’s evidence of that—discarded plastic bags, crime scene tape and even the faint sprinkles of fingerprint dust.

The broken pieces of countless shattered lives were left behind, though. A random shoe. Used needles. Broken furniture. Torn books. Graffiti litters every wall with various tags and nihilistic messages left behind by forgotten patients.

One inked tag catches my eye.

WE SCREAM IN SILENCE.

Running a gloved hand over the letters, anger comes rushing to the surface. Strange to think I once felt nothing… until she came along. Now I’m not just angry. No. I’m indescribably, uncontrollably, ire-fucking-futably furious.

We did scream.

Yet all they heard was silence.

Hand falling, I swallow the thick lump that’s now clogging my throat and push onwards to the south wing. The damage is worse here. Patients sought safety and refuge wherever they could when the institute fell. Some obviously hid here.

I’m not sure what possesses me to return to the art room at the end of the sagging corridor, now peppered with all manner of animal waste. The door is hanging off its hinges, the room brightly illuminated by moonlight spilling through smashed bay windows.

Gooseflesh rises on my skin, even beneath my heavy clothing. I can feel it prickling and spreading. I numbly realise that I’m staring at a torn canvas, tossed on the floor and covered in stains.

Dirt. Blood.

Who can tell?

I recognise the brush strokes beneath, though. I’ve spent enough hours silently watching her paint. The way the lurid shades are liberally applied for maximum emotional impact… It’s Ripley’s signature style.

She doesn’t just create art; she creates living, breathing replicas of her motherfucking soul. Each canvas holds a piece, torn directly from her chest then splattered against the material like a bloodied Rorschach inkblot. She paints with her own mortality.

Crouching down, I ignore the coverage of filth to lift the canvas. I don’t recognise this one. My leather-encased fingertips skate over the intricate swirls of black, dark-green and crimson, painting a violent maelstrom with three lone figures at the heart of the storm.

It’s signed and dated. She painted this not long after we arrived at Harrowdean Manor. I trace the first shadowy figure. She’s flanked by two darker shadows, creeping up behind her like prowling wolves.

A low chuckle tumbles from my mouth. I suppose that’s exactly what we were back then. Wolves. Predators. Enemies. Which is precisely how we survived. We had to become evil too.

Placing the canvas back down, I forcibly tear my eyes away from the twisted reminder of the past. The rest of the room is a disaster. Work benches are smashed and collapsed, stools upturned, electrical cables hanging from the ceiling. It’s a war zone.

The other rooms are no better. My flashlight swings from side to side, illuminating each iteration of the institute’s own apocalypse. Weirdly, it’s silent. Deathly so. My footsteps are the only sound, not even the clamour of stray animals keeps me company.

The world abandoned Harrowdean Manor.

Much like it abandoned us.

My feet carry me without direction. I don’t know what I came here to achieve. Not really. I just knew that I needed to see it one last time—to verify those dark times really happened and weren’t some elaborate, fucked up dream.

On the fifth floor, it’s a treacherous journey to room seventeen. The door hangs open, partially collapsed. Hoisting my backpack higher, I step into Ripley’s old bedroom, the floorboards creaking beneath my boots.

---