Page 28 of The Preachers' Promise
My door buzzes,signaling it unlocking.
My eyes are sore and gritty from lack of sleep, and my muscles hurt, perhaps from lying on the hard bed all night, but also possibly from my fight with the staff the previous day. Either way, I feel like I aged forty years overnight.
The clang of metal on metal comes from farther down the corridor as someone hits something against the doors.
“Come on, you lazy lot. Breakfast time,” a female voice I don’t recognize shouts.
I have the feeling breakfast is nonnegotiable, though the last thing I feel like doing is eating. My stomach roils at the thought of putting anything into it. I want to lie down again and close my eyes, but my bladder is also making itself known to me. I force myself to sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet making contact with the cold floor. I catch sight of the winking security camera in the corner of the room. With a scowl, I flip whoever might be watching behind it the bird.
The action gives me a little thrill of power. I rarely swear, but the moment calls for it.
Good girls don’t act that way, Ophelia,the Prophet’s voice tells me.
My stomach drops, but I force myself to be brave. “Oh, fuck off,” I say out loud.
No reply comes, and I take that as a win.
Banging sounds at my door. “Breakfast,” shouts the same voice I heard coming down the corridor. “You’re to be in the dining hall in ten minutes.”
“I’m just using the bathroom,” I call back.
The person moves on, and I exhale a sigh of relief. Any moment of privacy in this place is a blessing.
I relieve myself and throw water over my face. A disposable toothbrush and small tube of toothpaste have been provided, so I use them to scrub my teeth. My mouth feels horrible after the poor night’s sleep, and the drugs they gave me didn’t help. I wish I had some decent clothes to change into, but all I have are these scratchy pink top and pants.
When I’m done, I go to the door and crack it open. I peer down the corridor. People are milling about—both those dressed in white and those in pink. I know that pink signifies a patient, while white means staff.
I remember where that horrible woman told me the dining hall was, and, feeling self-conscious, leave my room to head in that direction.
I do my best not to make eye contact with anyone. I keep my head down, my hair falling over my face. I wonder if any of them will notice my scar and assume it’s self-inflicted. None of them would guess what really happened—that a cult leader slashed my face as punishment for running away. In fact, I’d bet some of the other people here would think I was making stuff up from an unwell mind if I told them my story, rather than believe it’s the truth.
The breakfast room consists of one long line of tables with benches on either side. People in pink are already seated, bowls of what looks like porridge placed in front of them. Theatmosphere is subdued, and my stomach knots. I don’t want to be here.
I go to take a seat on a bench at the farthest end of the table, but, just as I begin to sit, someone kicks the bench out from under me. I only just catch myself before I spill onto the floor.
“Hey!” I protest.
“You need to line up and collect your meds before breakfast,” a male voice says.
I glance over my shoulder to see it’s the asshole from last night—Carter.
“I don’t need any meds. I shouldn’t even be here.”
“You don’t have any choice. In here, you belong to us, and if we tell you to take your meds, then you take your meds. If you refuse, we will force them into you.”
I don’t want to be drugged. My head is finally feeling clearer after they sedated me yesterday, and I don’t want to go back to that fog. Even if the drugs put a stop to the Prophet’s voice, I don’t want to spend my life living one step away from reality.
The Preachers helped me by making me feel more alive, stronger, braver. The drugs help me by making me distant, detached, groggy. I know which option I prefer. In fact, they are doing me a favor here by showing me there is something scarier than having the Prophet in my head, and that’s losing my independence and the ability to think clearly.
But I can’t fight this place. I have to go along with it until I figure out what I’m going to do to get the hell out of here. I need to make them think I’m compliant and responsive to their treatment, and then I need to convince my parents I’m well again. It won’t be easy—especially if I still have the Prophet whispering in my ear—but it’s the only way I’m going to get out of this hellhole.
When I’m back home, and well, then I can figure out how I’m going to get back to my men.
Guilt twists inside me. I shouldn’t only be thinking about the Preachers. I need to think of Daisy, too. She’s asked for my help, and I can’t ignore her. But help her? I have no idea how I’m going to do that—and honestly, the thought of making myself a target of the Prophet again terrifies me—but I won’t abandon her. I need to get my hands on the letter she wrote and see if she included some clue that perhaps my parents wouldn’t have noticed. Would they have even kept the letter? I hope so.
“Come on. What are you waiting for?”
Carter grabs my upper arm and yanks me along with him.
