Page 3 of Atrocity (The Wellard Asylum #5)

“Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too.

They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.”

—?Stephen King

T hey keep telling me I need to “respect personal boundaries.”

That I’m “a danger to myself and others.”

That’s rich, considering I’m the only one in this place who sees people for what they really are. Bent. Breakable. Bored. Pretending there’s still something holy in their bones while they sit in piss-yellow lighting playing checkers with ghosts.

But sure, let’s talk about boundaries.

Let’s talk about the way Gabriel flinches when I laugh too loud. How he hunches his shoulders like they’ll save him. How he grips that sketchbook like it’s a goddamn riot shield—not a confession. Like he thinks it’ll protect him from me.

You can learn a lot about a person from what they draw when they think no one’s watching.

Not everyone in this hellhole draws—some just scream, some drool, some fuck the walls—but the ones who do?

Shit. I’ve seen things scratched into paper that make murder look like foreplay.

Doesn’t even matter if it’s stick figures or full-blown masterpieces, it always gives them away.

Little glimpses of the rot they try to bury deep.

But drawings?

They don’t lie.

They bleed.

So yeah… I’ve been wondering what my little puppet’s been hiding behind that sketchbook like it’s holy scripture.

I haven’t gotten a good look yet, not really. Just glimpses. But it’s about time, don’t you think?

About time I get a peek behind the curtain.

Time I tear that little shield from his shaking hands and see what filth he’s been bleeding onto the page.

Because whatever he’s been hiding, whatever secrets he’s been stroking out in ink and graphite while pretending to be pure?—

It’s mine now.

The communal room smells like cheap sanitizer and warm metal.

Rust flakes off the old radiator in the corner.

The blinds are half-bent, letting in gray light that doesn't warm anything. There’s a piano against the wall, out of tune and untouched since the guy with eight fingers bled on the keys.

The couch cushions have collapsed in the middle like they’ve been sat on by too many dying hopes.

TV’s on. Volume low. Static bleeding through a rerun of some ancient sitcom where everyone’s smiling too hard. Fake laughter. Fake peace. I can’t fucking stand it.

Dale’s perched on the windowsill, back straight, wearing that same gray button-up and pants combo they shove us all into like it makes us less wild. He’s toying with a bit of twine again, wrapping it around two fingers like a garrote. Or a leash. Same shit.

“Morning, Johnny,” he drawls without looking up. Voice like molasses poured over glass.

I don’t answer. Just grin at him, wide, white, and sharp.

Carmen, the nurse with the scarred knuckles and permanently chapped lips, is spoon-feeding some old man with more drool than teeth. Her eyes flick toward me and then back down like she saw something she shouldn’t. That’s half the fun of this place. Everyone sees something. No one says anything.

Until it’s too late.

I’m slouched in a cracked vinyl chair, one leg hooked over the other, watching the room like it’s a stage and I’m the only one reading the script.

Then the door hisses open.

And he walks in.

Gabriel.

Hair messy, like he’s been raking his fingers through it in that nervous little way he does. Neck blotched pink from stress. Like whoever had him behind a desk this morning was poking too deep, dragging shit out of him he didn’t want to say.

He walks in stiff. Shoulders tight. Fists curled around that sketchbook like it’s Kevlar. Like paper and graphite are gonna save him from the wolves.

Poor thing.

Still thinks there’s a version of this place where the monsters don’t find him.

But I already did.

He looks up.

His eyes hit mine and freeze. Like a deer. Like a little thing that knows it’s been seen by something with teeth, and I grin.

Slow. Heavy. Promises tucked into the curl of it.

He swallows and takes a step toward the chairs near the TV.

I move.

No one stops me. They’ve learned better.

My slippers make soft sounds against the floor with each step. Each one dragging his gaze closer to panic. He sits down too fast, sketchbook clutched to his chest.

I drop into the seat beside him like I belong there. Like I’ve been doing it for years. One arm slung across the back of his chair, body turned toward him, a little too close. Close enough to see the way his jaw tightens. Close enough to ruin him.

He stiffens. Doesn’t look at me. But he doesn’t move either.

I grin.

“You skipping out on our next little rinse-off, sweetheart?” I murmur, voice low, casual, like we’re just chatting about the weather.

“No,” he says. Then catches himself. “I mean—yes. I’m not?—”

“Hmm,” I hum thoughtfully. “Shame. We had such a moment, didn’t we?”

He swallows.

“I mean, you could’ve screamed. You could’ve run.” I lean in close, breath brushing his cheek. “But you didn’t. Not at first. You just stood there. Watching. And don’t lie, your dick did too.”

His whole face flushes crimson.

“Bet it surprised you, didn’t it? That twitch between your legs. That heat in your gut. You tell yourself it was fear, but we both know better. You wanted to see what I’d do. You wanted me to look.”

He finally glares at me, but there’s no weight behind it. Just nerves and confusion and something else, something closer to shame than hatred.

And that? That’s better than any fuckin’ meal they serve in this place.

“I was just—” he starts.

“Curious?” I offer. “Turned on? Both?”

“I wasn’t?—”

“You were,” I snap, voice dipped in a grin. “That little breathy sound you made when I stroked myself? That wasn’t fear, mutt. That was need. ”

He doesn’t deny it.

He just sits there, red-faced, silent, trying to disappear.

“You waited,” I murmur, voice curling with a grin. “Didn’t scream. Didn’t bolt. Just stood there like a good little freak, watching me jerk off like you wanted to be next.”

His throat works hard, but no words come out. Doesn’t matter. I see the truth written all over him—red cheeks, glassy eyes, thighs locked tight like he’s trying to suffocate the hard-on I already know he’s got.

I lean in closer, voice dropping low and filthy.

“You liked it. Don’t fucking lie. You got off on it.

That tight little body of yours didn’t move until I finished all over the tile.

Hell, you probably liked knowing it was because of you.

Bet you went back to your room after and jerked that pretty pink cock thinking about my cum on the floor. ”

He shakes his head, but it’s weak. Pointless.

“Oh yeah,” I whisper. “You’re not innocent, sweetheart. You’re a cock-hungry little perv playing at purity. But I see right through it. Right through you. And you know what?”

I grin wider, devilish and damn near feral. “I fuckin’ want you anyway.”

I let my hand drift—slow, casual—toward his sketchbook. He tenses. I yank it from his grip.

“Don’t—” he starts, but I’m already flipping through it.

Pages full of inked-up nightmares. Black-slashed violence. Bodies broken and bent like puppets with cut strings. Mouths sewn shut. Eyes hollow. Gagged, bound, begging. It’s fucked. Beautifully fucked. Every page screams like someone trying to claw their demons out with a pen.

Screams like me.

But then I see it.

And fuck me, I feel it.

It’s me.

Me.

Head thrown back. Laughing. Shirt half-off, scars and ink peeking out like they belong on display. Eyes sharp enough to cut glass. There’s something in my hand, can’t tell if it’s a weapon or a fucking windpipe , but either way, I’m using it. The lines are frantic. Messy. Starved.

My cock twitches.

I whistle low through my teeth. “Shit, look at this,” I murmur, grinning like the devil found his reflection. “Didn’t peg you for a groupie, sweetheart.”

He looks like he might puke. Or cry. Maybe both. Face pale, eyes wide, mouth a soft little line of panic like he’s choking on the fact that he got caught.

I tilt the book toward him, smirking. “What’s this one called? Daddy Issues? Worship Me? Or just Please, Johnny, Break Me ?”

Gabriel makes a strangled sound in his throat—half gasp, half protest—and tears his gaze away, but not before I catch the flicker of shame… and something sicker, darker, pulsing just beneath it.

I slam the sketchbook down into his lap like it owes me something, then lean in close, closer than I should. My fingers drop to his thigh, and fuck, the way he jerks like I just touched a live wire? Delicious.

But I don’t stop.

I drag my hand slow, lazy, like I’ve got all the time in the world to ruin him. Then I find his hand, trembling, useless, and wrap mine around it like a vice.

And I guide it.

Right to my cock.

Hard. Heavy. Throbbing beneath rough cotton.

I press his palm flat over it and grind into it, just enough to make his breath hitch.

“Feel that?” I growl, voice low and mean. “That’s you, sweetheart. That’s what your creepy little sketches do to me. That’s what that twitchy fucking stare in the shower did.”

He shakes.

Good.

“Bet you’d cry real fuckin’ pretty if I pulled you into my lap right now and made you ride it in front of everyone. Let them see the truth. That you were made for this.”

His lips part. No sound comes out.

So I shove his hand harder against me, grinning like the fucking devil with a hard-on, then, an orderly approaches.

Tall. Blond. Clean-cut. Stupid.

“Johnny,” he says carefully, stepping close. “Why don’t you give Gabriel some space, huh?”

I smile up at him like I’m harmless, and then I stand.

Slow. Measured. Letting Gabriel’s hand drag off me as I rise.

“Aw,” I say sweetly. “You jealous?”

“Back off.”

“Or what?”

He doesn’t get to answer.

Because my hand moves faster than his mouth.

Fingers around his throat, thumb digging under his jaw like I’m searching for something important and maybe I am.

Maybe I’m wondering what sound he’ll make when his trachea starts to cave.

Maybe I just want Gabriel to see it. See how he reacts to gore and violence when it’s right up in his goddamn face.

The orderly gags. His clipboard hits the ground. The pen rolls under a chair.

Gasps rise from around the room. Someone screams. Carmen yells my name, but it’s distant, like she’s underwater.

I laugh.

Loud. Sharp. Joyful.

“You like playing hero?” I hiss into his face, tightening my grip. “You wanna be the one who ‘saves the delicate little flower’ from the big bad wolf? Huh?”

His hands claw at my wrists.

Behind me, Gabriel doesn’t move. Little puppet doesn’t even fucking breathe.

I slam the orderly against the wall hard enough to rattle the framed print of some serene landscape. It falls. Glass shatters. A corner snags the guy’s cheek and opens a little red smile beneath his eye.

“Oh,” I coo, “look at that. You’re blushing.”

He chokes something out, could’ve been a name, could’ve been a plea.

I don’t care.

Instead, I pull back just enough to headbutt him.

Crunch.

He crumples like tissue paper. Slides down the wall in a pathetic, twitchy heap.

I stand over him, panting, chest rising and falling. Blood spatters the front of my shirt. Warm. Sticky. Perfect.

Then I turn back to Gabriel.

He hasn’t moved.

Still frozen in his chair, sketchbook on his lap, eyes wide. His lips are parted like he forgot how to close them. His knuckles are white where they grip the sketchbook’s edge, and there it is again.

That look.

Like he doesn’t know whether to run or drop to his knees.

I walk back to him slowly, savoring every step. Around us, chaos has bloomed. Carmen’s calling for backup.

Dale comes rushing over like it’s fucking Christmas morning, eyes lit up, grin stretching too wide. He drops to his knees beside the downed orderly and snatches up a shard of glass like it’s a gift from God himself.

“Hold him still,” he mutters, already slicing at the guy’s arm with giddy precision, like he’s peeling fruit. “Need a fresh piece for later.”

Blood spills fast, and Dale hums, delighted, tongue poking between his teeth as he works.

I crouch beside Gabriel’s chair and lean in close.

“You like that?” I whisper, voice low and intimate. “Bet you got hard, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t need to.

His pulse is fluttering in his throat like a trapped baby bird.

I drag my fingers over his knee, slow and deliberate, leaning in until I feel his breath hitch.

“You ever wonder what it’d feel like?” I whisper, voice thick with heat. “Me, buried inside you… slick with something warm and red. Bet your tight little hole would take it like it was made for me.”

I rise, just as two new orderlies come rushing in.

Their mouths are moving. Their hands are out.

But all I see is Gabriel.

My little puppet.

Not just because he wants to be used, bent over and fucked ‘til he breaks, but because he gets it . The blood, the screaming, the way chaos tastes on your tongue. He watches the gore like it’s art. Breathes it in like it gets him off.

He’s not just mine to ruin.

He’s mine because part of him likes it. Just like I do.

They grab me. Haul me back. One has a nightstick. The other’s shouting something about sedation.

Doesn’t matter.

I grin over my shoulder as they drag me away.

Because I saw the way Gabriel looked at me.

Not with fear.

With fascination.

Fuck, he’s already cracking.