Page 1 of Atrocity (The Wellard Asylum #5)

“I am not a monster. I am just ahead of the curve.”

— The Joker

M y file says I, Johnny Cutter , murdered Suzanne Bishop in cold blood.

They underlined brutally —like I fucking stuttered. Like I didn’t carve her open with purpose, like it wasn’t art . These doctors? They're idiots with pens. But they sure love their words. Brutal. Psychotic. Deranged. They staple that shit to your name like it’s supposed to mean something.

But I remember everything .

She wore lavender that night. Lace. Cheap perfume. Said she liked broken boys. Said I was "sweet." I gutted her with a steak knife and came while she screamed. There’s nothing sweeter than that.

I fold the file slowly, tracing the red ink like it’s a love letter.

Tuck it back under the mattress with the rest of my collection—drawings, shanks, shreds of old clothes I liked the feel of.

One of the orderlies will toss the place again in the morning.

Let them. I hide things where they don’t look—inside the lining of my fucking soul.

Clinically insane.

That one still cracks me up.

They think crazy is wild eyes and drool. Screaming at walls. Shitting your pants in a corner.

But real crazy?

Real crazy is calm.

It's the man next to you smiling while he imagines splitting you open— slowly. Peeling back your skin like it’s wrapping paper. Not because he’s angry. Not even because he hates you. But just to see what’s underneath.

It’s the patient folding napkins like swans while picturing what your lungs would sound like outside your body.

It’s the soft-spoken guy in the corner, humming show tunes, thinking about how he’d keep you alive while he took his time.

Real crazy is polite. Patient. Thoughtful.

It’s the man who asks if you’re cold before slicing open your belly to warm his hands inside you.

And it never, ever screams.

It just smiles.

Of course that man’s me. Who the fuck else would it be?

Dinner tonight is meatloaf. Or something pretending to be meatloaf—gray, soggy, sweating gravy like it’s trying to bleed out on the tray.

Potatoes with the texture of wet paper. Green beans boiled into submission.

The cafeteria smells like a nursing home with a corpse problem.

Mildew, bleach, and whatever despair tastes like.

I don’t eat the food here. Haven’t in months.

Slop like this? It’s not even worth chewing. Smells like someone puked up wet cardboard and called it protein. The others shovel it in like it’s currency. Like survival. Fucking pathetic.

But me?

I get fed.

Real food. Outside food. Burgers that still bleed a little when I bite into them. Fries crisp enough to make a sound. Salt, grease, flavor—shit you can taste. Because there’s always someone on the inside with a fetish and a keycard.

Dr. Gold.

Nervous. Sweaty. Reeks of sanitizer and shame. The kind of man who doesn’t know if he wants to be punished or praised, so he settles for choking on cock like it’s salvation. All I had to do was smirk at him once during intake. Tilt my head. Lick my lips. That was it. Hook. Line. Cocksucker.

Now he sneaks me food through the staff exit. Let’s me sit on his office couch with my legs spread while he gets on his knees and pretends he’s doing penance. One hand wrapped around the burger, the other buried in his hair while he gags himself on me like he’s starving for it.

And the best part?

He fucking thanks me.

Eyes wet, face wrecked, dripping down his chin and still thanking me like I handed him divinity on a sesame seed bun.

I get fed, and I get to nut.

Win-fucking-win.

I stare down at the cafeteria tray in front of me, barely suppressing a laugh.

Nah.

Let the rest of them eat the muck.

Beside me, Nolan’s going full make-out with his meat—mouth wide, slobbering, whispering sweet fucking nothings like it’s gonna confess something. Calls it Maureen. Says she understands him. I think he wants to fuck it. Honestly? Respect.

Across the room, one of the junkies is licking a spoon like it’s coated in pussy and trauma. Crying while he does it. Not quiet, either—big fat gasping sobs like the world just ended in his soup. He might be right.

Other side of the room, that creep with the lazy eye is dry-humping the napkin dispenser again. Eyes rolled back, moaning like he’s deep in some love story. Nobody stops him anymore. Hell, I think they miss him when he’s sedated.

Polly? Drooling into her pudding, twitching like a busted circuit every time she takes a bite. Once told me the gods live in the static. Says they whisper to her when it’s raining. She offered to let me hear once. I declined. I’ve already got enough voices.

Ronnie’s rocking in the corner, whispering lullabies and asking if anyone’s got spare shoelaces.

Wants to trade his Jell-O for them. They took his last pair after he tried to strangle himself while singing Rock-a-bye Baby .

Told me the world’s too fucking quiet unless he’s choking.

I offered to do it for him. He said maybe later.

I’ve had fun with a few of these psychos. There was this one kid, Sam. Real twitchy. Thought he didn’t exist unless someone touched him. So I touched him. Over and over. Just to make sure he knew he was real. The way he gasped when I whispered, “You’re alive because I said so ? ” Fucking poetry.

But now… now there’s the new kid.

Gabriel.

Only been here a week. Pretty little thing. All sand-colored hair and soft lips like he’s never been properly fucked. But he will be. I don’t need long, I just need access. So I made sure I got it.

One of the night nurses? She’s got a daddy complex and a thing for pain.

I gave her both. Fucked her raw in the staff bathroom with her scrubs still half on and her ID badge bouncing off her tit.

She came when I choked her. Giggled when I bit her.

Whispered, “Thank you” when I told her she was just a hole with access.

In exchange, she gave me Gabriel’s file.

Every fucking page.

Turns out, he’s exactly the kind of broken I like—soft-spoken, compliant, medicated just enough to dull the fight, but not enough to dull the need. The kind of boy who does what he’s told because he’s scared of what happens if he doesn’t. Easy to bend. Easier to break.

He’s the type that says “no” like he wants you to ignore it. And I will. Every fucking time.

Nothing gets my cock harder than someone pretending they don’t want it, especially when I can see the want in their fucking eyes. That twitch in his jaw. That flinch when I speak. The way his pupils dilate when I lean too close?

Oh yeah.

He’s mine.

He just doesn’t know it yet.

He’s parked a few tables over, all by his lonesome—shocker—and I can see it plain as day: that little twitch, that stiffening spine, the heat crawling up the back of his neck like instinct screaming, you’re being hunted .

His thighs tense. Jaw ticks. He knows I’m watching.

Just doesn’t have the balls to look. Playing pretend like ignoring me’ll make me disappear.

Sorry, mutt, Johnny don’t back off when he wants somethin’, and right now? I fuckin’ want you.

Soon, the other patients start to file out, shuffling back to their rooms, their meds, their padded little coffins of routine and rot. But Gabriel? He stays. Still sketching. Still pretending he doesn’t see me.

Cute.

Then Dale wanders over.

Gray-haired. Gums swollen where teeth used to be. Nails yellow and too long. Smells like iron and spoiled soup. Eyes milky, but sharp underneath. The kind of sharp that sees through skin.

“You ever suck the marrow out of a femur?” he asks me without warning. Like it’s a fucking hello.

I tilt my head. “Can’t say I have.”

He snorts. “People don’t know what meat really is. Not until it screams. Not until it begs.”

“Sounds messy.”

“Oh, it is,” he says, licking his bottom lip like it still tastes of something sweet and twitching. “You learn to love the mess. Makes you feel… connected. Intimate. Like chewing through their memories. Like swallowing their first kiss and last breath in one bite.”

I nod. Smile a little. “That what’s on the menu tonight?”

He scoffs. “Please. This slop? This isn’t food.

This is punishment. But I close my eyes, and I remember.

I remember the warmth. The way skin peels if you’re slow.

The sound of tendons snapping when they kick too much.

The taste behind the knees—best part. Tender.

Fear settles there. You can taste it if you’re careful. ”

He leans in, close. Whispers like it’s sacred, “Fear’s sweeter than sugar.”

I look past him. To Gabriel. Two tables down. Quiet. Tense. Head ducked. Trying so hard not to flinch. Like he doesn’t feel my stare crawling over him like teeth.

And just like that, he moves.

Closes the sketchbook. Tucks it under his arm like a lifeline. Slips out, quiet and fast, like if he doesn’t breathe too loud, I won’t follow.

I let him go.

For now.

“Gotta go,” I mutter as I rise, still watching Gabriel like a dog eyeing raw meat.

Dale’s gaze follows mine. Lands right where it should—on Gabriel, all twitchy limbs and nervous fingers, hugging his sketchbook like it’s a shield.

A low, knowing chuckle escapes his throat. “Mmm. That one. Soft. New. If you break it… bring me back a piece. Something still warm.” He licks his lips. “The liver, maybe. Or the tongue, if it hasn’t screamed itself raw.”

I smirk. “Not tonight.”

Dale clicks his tongue, disappointed. “Shame. So much meat going to waste these days.”

“Don’t worry,” I hum as I slip past him. “If I ever tear him open, I’ll make sure to save you a piece.”

He hums, swaying as he walks off toward the meds line, muttering about how elbow meat should always be flayed with a wire hanger.

The moment he’s gone, I slip into the hallway, following Gabriel.

Silent. Sure.

Like a shadow with a hard-on and a grudge.