Page 4 of Writhe
Rina gasps, mock-offended, her hand flying to her chest. “Eliza, you’re so morbid. Honestly, it’s why I like you.” She flashes a grin, her teeth yellowed from years of tobacco use. She’s young, but she’s been a smoker for a long time. Probably also does some other drugs considering her extra-curricular activities . “But I do worry about you sometimes. You’re so . . . detached. Don’t you want to make a friend or two while you’re here? I mean, other than me, obviously.”
I snort. “You’re more than enough, Rina. Couldn’t handle another.” I don’t want another friend. I barely even wanted her, but she’s an annoying little thing that thinks, just because we’re both in our mid-twenties, we’d instantly become friends. I’d rather be friends with the rat that scratches my wall at night.
She preens at the backhanded compliment, as if she doesn’t catch the sarcasm dripping off my words. “I know I’m fabulous, but seriously, this place is depressing enough without you pouting all the time. Maybe you should, I don’t know, join in? Play chess, talk to someone? Hell, even the muttering Gladys over there looks like she could use a buddy.”
I glance across the room at the woman in question, who’s now rocking back and forth, her fingers still twitching in midair. “Hard pass.”
Rina sighs dramatically, leaning closer again. “Fine, be a loner. But I swear, one day you’re going to thank me for being your one and only friend here. Without me, you’d go full Jack Nicholson inThe Shining.”
I finally look at her, my lips twitching at the edges. “If you’re my saving grace, Rina, then this place really is Hell.”
She throws her head back, laughing as if I’ve just told the funniest joke in the world. The sound makes a few of the other patient’s glance in our way, their eyes dull and glassy. Rina either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
“You’re a riot, Eliza,” she says, nudging my armwith her elbow. “Anyway, I heard some juicy gossip about you.”
Here it is, the real reason she came over. I turn my head slightly, meeting her curious blue eyes. “Do tell.”
She leans in. “Word is, the nurses are keeping an extra-close eye on you. Something about a special therapy program. Sounds fancy, doesn’t it?”
I blink, my face giving nothing away, though my stomach twists. Special therapy program? That could mean anything. And nothing good.
“Sounds like bullshit to me.”
It sounds like bullshit because I don’t want any special treatment. I want to spend my days doing the bare minimum without having to actually be in prison. If they choose me for some experimental treatment . . . nope, I refuse to even think about the possibility. Not happening. Therapy, maybe some ECT. Nothing else. Fuck them.
Rina smirks, clearly enjoying the reaction she thinks she’s coaxing out of me. “Sure, keep telling yourself that. But if it’s true, maybe you should ask Jacob to protect you. You know, in case the CIA really is involved.”
This time, I let the corner of my mouth lift in a faint smirk. “Thanks for the tip, Rina. I’ll get right on that.”
She beams, as if she’s won some kind of game. “That’s what I’m here for, bestie. Just looking out for you.”
I watch her flounce off to bother someone else, herfloral perfume lingering in the air. Fake friends are better than enemies in this place, but just barely.
Tuesdays are art days. An art teacher is brought in to teach us some sort of lesson and I, and all the other loonies, get together and attempt to be creative.
How fucking fantastic.
I swirl my brush in a thick glob of crimson before dragging it across the canvas in long, sweeping strokes. The color seeps into the fabric like fresh blood. It soothes me.
I press harder, watching the bristles splay as the paint thickens, coats, glistens. I smear it with the side of my thumb, feeling the slick texture between my fingers, the way it clings to my skin like something alive. There’s a rhythm to this. Stroke, press, smear. A ritual. A memory. A prayer. The red sinks deep into the canvas of dark, angry veins that spread like fractures in porcelain.
Porcelain.
Like the doll my mother gave me when I was a girl. It had perfectly painted lips, frozen in a never-ending hush, soft ringlets curled against its cold cheeks, and delicate hands, forever resting in its lap. It was beautiful. Unblemished. Until my brother shattered it on the linoleum floor. He always ruined everything.
I dig the brush into the canvas now, slashing the redinto a mouth, wide and gaping. I carve out eyes with black—hollow and staring—paint streaking like tears. The doll’s head, jagged at the edges where it had splintered, still smiles at me in memory, just as it had when I picked up the broken pieces.
A man stares at me from across the room. He’s so tall that he’s hunched over his canvas, but his eyes continue to glance over at me nervously. He’s so thin, his skin stretching over his bones, barely caging them in. His eyes are deep-set and dark, bottomless pits of nothingness. I blink a few times just to make sure I’m not looking at Slenderman, but his face is hauntingly real, painfully there. He has sickly, ghost-pale skin with lips that never part to speak but still twitch as the instructor goes over and talks to the person beside him.
He’s mesmerizing. In the worst way.
I drag my gaze away, forcing my focus back on my work. The red is still wet, gleaming under the harsh artificial lights. I press harder, watching it drip. The streaks curve and run, and I pretend I’m painting something beautiful. Something whole.
Across the room, something clatters. A cup of murky paint water spills across the table, a slow-moving tide of filth spreading across the floor. The patient responsible, James, flinches, hands trembling as they reach for the mess.
Too late.
Booted footsteps thunder toward him as an orderly crosses the room in three swift strides. A meaty fist tangles James’s hair, yanking him upright with a sharpjerk. The cup falls, spinning wildly before coming to rest in the spreading puddle.
