Page 27 of Writhe
Now, the fun begins.
ELIZA
The first thing I notice is how red the water runs.
The second thing I notice is that no one really cares.
The girl—Sarah, maybe? Samantha?—is crumpled in the corner of the communal shower like a discarded rag, her wrist flayed open with a jagged toothbrush handle.A smart choice.The bristles may be for keeping teeth clean, but the plastic. That’s for carving. Multi-purpose.
She’s still alive—for now. Her eyes flicker to mine, and there’s no panic. No regret. Just a dull, glassy acceptance, like she’s watching something inevitable unfold.
The orderlies don’t rush, don’t gasp, don’t fumble, don’t so much as raise a brow. They step in with all the urgency of janitors handling a clogged toilet. One crouches, pressing gauze against the wound with lazydisinterest, barely trying to stop the blood. The other loops an arm under hers and drags her up, her feet slipping through the crimson puddle she left behind.
No emergency alarms. No frantic attempts to save her. Just another day at Wellard. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight, just lets herself be hauled away like a sack of wet laundry, head lolling, eyes rolling. The trail of blood she leaves behind is thick, sluggish, streaking across the tile in arcs and handprints.
By dinner—if she’s lucky—she’ll be a sheet-draped shape in the basement.
By tomorrow night, someone else will be sleeping in her bed.
I stare at the mess they left behind.
Right. Cool.
This is my job now, apparently.
A drain gurgles nearby, working overtime to swallow her blood, but it’s too thick. Too much. It clings to the floor in sluggish rivers, catching the overhead lights, reflecting back at me in glistening streaks of garnet.
I should be used to this by now.Death lingers in places like this, curling into the walls, seeping into the floors. It doesn’t cause panic anymore, just mild annoyance. A mess to clean up before the next person tracks it through the halls.
I left the shower running in the chaos, and the spray bounces off the tile, mixing with the blood, thinning it out until the whole floor is streaked pink.
Pretty.
I crouch, dragging my fingers through the diluted red, watching the way it swirls. It’s warm—not quite body temperature, but close enough to trick my brain into thinking it’s still part of her. That she’s still here, melting away beneath my hands, inch by inch. I press my palm to the tile, leaving a smeared handprint. Proof of life, I guess.
Or proof of death—depends on how you look at it.
Once upon a time, I wasn’t the girl washing someone else’s blood down a drain. I was . . . What? A daughter? A sister? A fiancée? Someone who smiled in photos and made promises about the future? I try to picture it, but the image flickers—warps. My mother’s face, there and gone. I should remember her better.
She loved me—that’s what she always said. Even when she was locking me in the closet so I wouldn’t embarrass her guests. Even when she shoved her fingers down my throat and told me to try again because I wasn’t thin enough. Even when she whispered,“No man wants a crazy girl, Eliza. Fix yourself.”
And then, he still proposed. Despite it all—despiteme—he got down on one knee, slipped a ring on my finger, kissed me like I was worthy of it.
And his family? They adored me. Or at least, they pretended to.
His mother called medarlingand asked if I wanted her to plan the wedding. His father poured me whiskey and said he hoped I’d settle his son down. His sister looped our arms together and said she couldn’t wait to have a new best friend.
All of it is so warm. So perfect. Sofake.
Because the moment they thought I wasn’t looking, they studied me. Their eyes roamed—assessing—their smiles just a little too tight.
Is she normal? Is she stable? They thought I didn’t notice. They were wrong. I was always watching, and I saw everything.
I saw his father’s wandering hands. I saw his sister’s pills crushed into fine white dust. I saw the way his mother’s mask cracked when she thought no one was looking. They weren’t a family. They were a collection of lies stitched together, parading around in pearls and linen, clinking glasses, and pretending they were better than the rest of the world.
And they thought they could fix me.
That was their mistake.
