Page 2 of The Witch's Heart
I know how to cut, vertically not horizontally. I know which veins to hit to get the job done correctly. Living alone helps. No one will look for me until tomorrow when I don't show up for school.
I idly wonder who will come checking in. Probably Mike, from Art History. He's been asking me out for months and would want to be the first to ‘help’. But maybe Lacy will insist, knowing I don't fancy Mike at all. I actually hope it's Mike and not Lacy. I don't want my friend seeing me like this.
The slice doesn't hurt like I imagined it would. It almost feels good, like it's cutting into an illness and letting out the infection. As the blood flows into the water, covering my pale skin, staining my white dress, I imagine all the crazy bleeding away. Soon I'll be with my sister and my parents again.
Soon, I will be free of the madness that has taken the sanity—and lives—of every woman in my family for generations.
My eyes are closed, lost in dreams of death, when a stranger’s arms pull me out of the water. Heat tickles across my wet, chilled skin.
"You poor girl. There's hope for you yet." His voice is the last thing I hear before I fade into nothing.
1
Iwake with a sudden gasp, inhaling damp, chilled air that burns my throat. My fingers are cold as I bring them to my face, rubbing at my eyes. It doesn’t help against the blurriness. Blinking, I sit up, then wobble as the room spins around me.What time is it? Where am I?
In the muddled mess of my own thoughts, I struggle to remember the events that led me here.
Searching for a clue, I look down at the simple gown I’m wearing. It’s not familiar and is too baggy on my slender frame. Below the short hemline, my legs are tangled in a threadbare blanket draped across the cot I woke up on. Staring down at my own body, confusion turns quickly to fear. Nothing feels right about this.How did I get here?
I look up again, studying the room around me as the dizziness recedes and my vision finally begins to clear. The space comes into sharper focus. Concrete walls on three sides, and on the fourth—
I blink at the sight of iron bars.
A cell?
Panicked, I try to jump up, but the sudden movement sends me swaying and I ease back again.
“Careful now. The cocktail they gave you takes a bit to wear off.”
The voice is deep and gravelly with a distinct Australian accent. He speaks in almost a whisper, but in the strangeness of my surroundings, I cower against the wall as if he had shouted. Searching for the source of the voice, I give a quick jerk of my head left then right, but I don’t see anyone.
My heart pounds as I begin to wonder if I’m hearing imaginary voices. Again. Though they’ve never had an Australian accent before.
“No fast movements or you’ll cover yourself in piss in no time. Trust me, you’ll regret it.”
The voice is a little louder this time and sounds too close—too real—to be ignored.
I squint into the shadows beyond my own cell. At first, I see only a shape, but then two large green eyes come into focus, nearly glowing in the darkness and staring back at me from a cell across from my own.
“Who’s there?” I ask, but it comes out in a barely audible rasp. I cough, desperate for water, but there’s nothing in the cold cell, save the cot and single blanket.
“I’m Dean.”
I try to concentrate on the name he gives, or any sign of recognition it brings, but my thoughts are addled and empty.
“And you are?” he prompts.
In the near-darkness, I lick my dry, chapped lips.
“Celeste.”
For a split second, I’m relieved I actually recall my own name. Then my eyes catch on the bandage wrapped around my left wrist, and a pit forms in my stomach. The voices I heard at the river. That all-too familiar face. My desperate attempt to end my own life. As I begin to remember the rest, whispers echo within my mind.
He has you now.
There’s no escape.
“Where am I?” I ask, shutting out the voice in my head.
