Page 19 of Asylum (The Wellard Asylum #9)

M y eyes won’t open, and I’ve become entirely too familiar with this feeling.

I’ve been drugged. Again.

Fucking Atlas.

He’s such a piece of shit. I’ll never understand how I couldn’t see it at first. Why couldn’t I see past the charm, the bullshit facade?

“Kill him!” The little voice whispers into my mind for the millionth time.

Believe me, bitch. If I could, I would.

My head is throbbing but when I try to move it, I can’t.

Attempting to lift my hands to my head, I can’t move those either.

Same for my legs. Warring with the pain shooting through my skull, I peel my eyes open, and I shudder.

I’m sitting in front of a wall-length mirror.

My head, arms, torso and legs are strapped into a wooden chair.

It reminds me of the electric chairs I’ve seen on crime documentaries following death row inmates.

No. No. No.

This can’t be fucking happening.

Just as I notice a door behind me, it opens. Atlas walks in with a sly grin on his face, and my stomach churns. “Hello, little doll,” he coos, and the sound of his voice has bile rising in my throat.

I steel my spine and lift my chin the best I can while strapped to this fucking chair. “What form of torture will you be performing today, Dr. Stone?”

His grin widens to a full, beaming smile. “We’re going to play a game.”

He walks to the corner of the room, wheeling over a cart and stool I didn’t see before. He sits in front of me, opening the second drawer of the cart. He pulls out a handful of long, skinny papers, laying them on top. He lifts one of the paper sleeves, slowly pulling an object from the packaging.

My body begins shaking uncontrollably.

Needles.

I watch in horror as he unwraps ten needles, carefully laying them in a row on top of a white cloth.

What the fuck is he going to do with those?

He picks one up, holding it in the space between us. “Today, you’ll learn how to keep your mouth shut.” He reaches for my hand, lifting my index finger as far as the restraints will allow.

No matter how hard I try, it won’t curl into my fist. It must be the aftereffects of the sedative. I grit my teeth as he moves the needle closer to my fingertip.

The voice in my head is chanting now. “Kill him! Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!”

I’m strapped to a chair, a lunatic coming at me with a needle. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I begin fighting, pulling against the restraints, growling at the bastard as if it’ll make him stop.

My skin pops and fire shoots through my hand as he slides the needle beneath my fingernail, sinking it deep into the nail bed.

A scream tears from my throat, my muscles straining against the leather straps.

My finger burns like it’s being held within a flame, and I grit my teeth against the searing pain.

My face begins to ache with how tightly my eyes are squeezed shut.

I can’t open them, even as he slides another needle into my middle finger.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

My senses focus on my jaw aching from grinding my teeth.

My throat raw from screaming through each pop of the skin on my fingertips.

My head throbbing from the sedatives and unleashed rage spearing through my veins.

Another needle pierces the nail bed of my ring finger, and everything disappears.

Silence.

No pain.

I’m floating in a void. Only the sound of my breathing filters through the darkness.

One. Breathe in.

Two. Breathe out.

Three. Breathe in.

Four. Breathe out.

My mind refuses to allow anything other than counting and breathing.

“Shhh.” The voice whispers, and my mind shifts, the counting stops. “Stay calm. I will get you through this.”

I startle. The little voice in my head usually only demands death.

It unleashes a part of me that would otherwise lay dormant.

Hearing the soothing tone now throws me for a loop.

It’s abrupt presence always surfaces right before a rage episode occurs.

I’ve always thought it was a side effect of my disorder, a unique way of protecting me.

But now I wonder, is there someone else living inside my head?

Do I have another personality acting as a defender, shielding me from the things I can’t handle?

My previous doctor told me he didn’t believe I had multiple personalities.

Something about my symptoms not meeting the criteria. Atlas hasn’t mentioned it either.

“Calm.” It whispers again, and I snap back to reality.

The sound of Atlas’s harsh breathing reaches my ears. The cold dampness in the room assaults my skin. Adrenaline buzzes through my body, and I know what’s about to happen.

My eyes snap open, and I meet the cold gaze of my tormentor. My abuser. My enemy.

I will take his life.

I’ll beg the voice in my head to let me hang on to the memory. Let me be present and watch the life drain from his dark, emotionless eyes.

Glancing down at my hands, my gaze darts from one to the other, and I feel nothing as I see nine needles protruding from my fingertips.

Our gazes collide once again, and for the first time ever, I see something resembling fear flash across his face.

He’s holding the final needle, gripping the thumb on my right hand.

He blinks a few times before sinking it beneath my nail.

I don’t flinch. I don’t make a sound. I’m stoic, and his confused expression makes me break the silence and giggle.

His brows furrow, which has me laughing harder, almost hysterically.

He tilts his head to the side like a puppy trying to understand what he’s looking at, and before I know it, I’m cackling so hard tears are steadily streaming down my cheeks.

“Little doll,” he grits out, unimpressed by my reaction.

I don’t respond, trying to catch my breath.

“Olivia,” he growls.

Finally composing myself long enough to form words, I keep the smile on my face. “Did you enjoy making me your little pincushion?” His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t respond. “What’s the matter, Dr. Stone? Not the reaction you were hoping for?”

He lunges forward, wrapping his hand around my throat. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I laugh in his face. “I’m crazy, remember?”

He releases me, stepping back as if contemplating something.

He leans down, plucking each needle from my fingers in quick succession, but I don’t feel a thing.

He grinds his teeth so violently, I expect to hear them shatter.

He tosses the needles on the cart, returning his attention to me.

“Alright, Miss Sterling. I’ll show you how I treat crazy people. ”