Page 5 of Writhe
“Look what you did, you little freak.”
James whimpers and it only makes it worse. The male orderly slams James’s head against the cinder block wall. Hard. The crack echoes and squelches.
Again.
And again.
A wet, rhythmic beating of flesh against stone.
Something coils tight in my belly.
The patient sags, knees buckling, but the orderly doesn’t let them fall. He keeps going, like he’s trying to crack James open—spill something inside. The only thing that comes out is red and beautiful.
His blood.
No one moves.
The other patients keep painting, keep pretending. I do too. My brush dips into the blue, and I smear another stroke across the canvas, my pulse hammering in my throat. James makes a weak noise—a gurgle—and finally, mercifully, the orderly lets them drop.
Into a twitching, crumpled heap on the floor.
The orderly clicks his tongue, wiping his hand on his uniform like he’s touched something dirty. “Clean it up.” His voice is flat, bored.
No one moves.
Another orderly, a woman this time, sighs, and grabs James by the ankles, dragging him out like he’s discarded trash. The streak of blood he left behind glistens under the lights—the only proof that he was evenhere. I force myself to breathe, slow and even, fighting the nausea rolling in my gut. My hands shake as I dip my brush into the red. The color blooms purple across the canvas. I wonder what it would look like if it were the orderlies’ blood dripping down my canvas instead.
“You shouldn’t stare,” Rina whispers.
I don’t look over at her. I just focus on my canvas.
“Why not?”
“They’ll think you care.”
I clench my teeth, tightening my grip on the brush until my knuckles ache. I force myself to paint, to pretend, to submit. It’s the only way to survive.
She’s right there.
I smell the scent of her soap waft past my nose as she twirls her dark hair around her finger that she’s already assaulted with her teeth. She bites her fingernails and something inside of me wonders if she could bite me.
Make it hurt.
Make me fucking bleed.
The Doctor, a man with wire-rimmed glasses who hasn’t ever said his name, and a voice that drags like a razor across my skin, clears his throat. “Let’s begin.”
I shift uncomfortably in my chair, hands pressed against my thighs, and I listen. Not because I want to, but because I have no choice but to be in group therapytoday. Because it’s Thursday. Thursdays are for therapy. A room full of people talking, dissecting, bleeding their thoughts out onto the floor in the hope that one day they will be deemed sane. Which will never happen.
Eliza’s lips are full, her eyes the color of old bruises, dark and hiding something beneath the surface. If I stare too long, I’ll start imagining what her skin feels like—what she tastes like. What she’d look like with my hands around her throat.
Not in a bad way, of course. Not really.
“The first thing we should talk about is James.” The Doctor says it like he’s asking for volunteers to go first, like this is some kind of class discussion instead of the reality we’ve been shoved into.
No one speaks at first. The fluorescent lights hum. Someone sniffles.
Then, finally, a girl with a mess of blonde hair clears her throat. “He’s better off, right? I mean, I’d rather be dead than stuck here.”
