Page 4 of Atrocity (The Wellard Asylum #5)

“The most dangerous creation of any society is the man who has nothing to lose.”

—James Baldwin

T hey locked me up for forty-eight hours after I painted the walls with that fucker’s face.

Sedated me, strapped me to a cot like I was some feral thing that didn’t belong to their order.

News flash, Doc—I never belonged. Not here. Not anywhere.

Wellard Asylum doesn’t forgive. It forgets.

Faces disappear. Screams echo down the halls, get muffled by pills and policy, but the stains stick. Blood’s harder to bleach than they’ll ever admit.

You can still see the blood-shadow on the floor in the communal room, right where the orderly’s body crumpled after I cracked his skull with a headbutt that rang like a church bell. Poor bastard dropped like a sack of meat—limbs twitching, teeth scattered like spilled pills.

And the wall? Still got that blank white rectangle where the painting used to hang, the one that shattered when it hit the floor. Glass everywhere. Pretty little lake scene turned into a murder weapon. Swans swimming in blood now. I like it better that way.

Dale’s out too. Wandering like a kicked dog with a new limp and fewer brain cells.

Word is, they dragged him in for a little quality time with Dr. Mercier.

Not a heart-to-heart. Not some tell me how that made you feel kind of moment.

Nah. Mercier doesn’t do feelings.

He does volts.

He strings you up like a lab rat and fries the pieces of your brain that made you human. Then he calls it healing.

And they fucking let him.

They call him Doctor.

Isn’t that adorable?

Dale didn’t come out quieter. He came out twitchier. Eyes too wide. Jaws grinding.

Whispering to himself like the voices finally crawled through.

Now he’s pushing a wheeled bin down the hall—laundry duty. Humming something that might’ve once been a lullaby if it hadn’t been dragged backwards through hell. Every third step, He mutters, “Fresh meat,” low and twitchy, like a prayer to whatever fried circuits he’s got left.

I watch him round the corner and vanish into the laundry wing—bin squeaking, head jerking to a rhythm only he can hear.

But I’m not here for Dale.

Not today.

I’ve got other cravings.

Forty-eight fucking hours locked in that room. No voices. No skin. No eyes wide with fear. Just me, the walls, and the echo of a name I can’t stop chewing on.

Gabriel.

My little puppet.

And now that I’m free?

I want to see him.

Touch him.

Rattle the bones in that pretty little frame until something breaks.

So where the fuck is he?

I scan the room. Just the usual parade of droolers and ghost-eyed husks slumped in plastic chairs—eyes vacant, jaws slack. One’s rocking. Another’s humming a song with no melody.

But not him.

Not mine.

My fingers twitch. My jaw locks.

The itch at the base of my skull sharpens like a blade.

I need to find him.

Before someone else does.

I try the art room first.

Empty.

The easels are still crusted in old paint, one of them knocked over like someone left in a hurry. A forgotten brush floats in a murky jar of rinse water, the color stained the same sickly gray as the sky outside the barred windows.

No puppet.

Next stop, the day room.

There’s a chessboard mid-game on one table, the pieces sticky with someone’s blood or jelly—maybe both.

A girl named Petra is curled in the corner rocking back and forth, chewing her own hair like it's candy floss.

Across from her, two meatheads are arguing over a deck of cards with half the faces scratched out.

Still no sign.

The hallway’s worse. Lights flicker overhead like the place is having seizures. An orderly glares at me as I pass, hand twitching toward his baton. I just smile.

Still no fucking puppet.

My fingers twitch. Jaw tightens. That itch, it’s back, crawling up the back of my neck like a hundred tiny knives just under the skin.

Where the fuck is he?

He wouldn’t have gone far.

And then, shouting.

Sharp. Garbled. Panicked.

Down the hall.

Laundry room.

I run.

I swing the door open and the whole world narrows.

Dale’s got him pinned—Gabriel. My fucking Gabriel , pressed against the front of a humming washer like a slab of meat, one twitch away from getting carved.

That fuck’s got his knee shoved between those thin little legs, grinding like he’s staking a claim, while one filthy hand is locked around Gabriel’s throat hard enough to leave bruises.

The other? Clutching a shiv—nothing special, probably the rusted remains of a laundry pin or jagged wire yanked from a sheet—but it’s sharp, and it’s bloody, and it’s already sliced a clean red smile across the pale skin of Gabriel’s wrist. The blood drips in steady little beats, and that alone seems to be what broke Dale’s brain. One drop, and he snapped.

He’s muttering, voice cracked and wild, eyes darting like he’s chasing voices only he can hear.

“Fresh meat,” he growls, more to himself than anyone else.

“Still warm. Still twitching. Just one bite. That’s all I need.

Just one fuckin’ bite…” His mouth is practically foaming, spit glistening at the corners like a goddamn rabid dog, pupils blown wide, jaw unhinged and trembling with need—not lust, not rage. Hunger.

Fucking pathetic.

Gabriel’s standing there like a lamb before slaughter, trembling, too scared to fight, too shocked to run.

He’s looking everywhere but at the shiv, which tells me he doesn’t really get it yet, not how quick it can go from blood to body count.

And Dale? Dale’s not posturing. He’s not bluffing.

The bastard’s lost in it. Shock therapy must’ve scrambled his fucking skull, because whatever bit of humanity was in there before is long fucking gone now.

And me? I’ve seen enough.

Gabriel’s eyes are wide, but he’s not screaming.

He’s frozen.

His hands tremble at his sides.

The cut on his wrist glistens red.

His eyes don’t blink. Just bulge. Starving. Unwell.

I see red.

“Get the fuck off him,” I snarl.

Dale flinches and turns, all teeth and mania. “She’s mine! Pretty little lamb, bleedin’ just for me?—”

“She’s a he , you inbred meat sack,” I mutter, stepping in, calm as Sunday morning.

Then he lunges.

Shiv in hand. Swinging low.

I catch his wrist mid-air, slam it back into the steel dryer door hard enough to hear something crack. The blade hits the floor with a clatter. Dale screams, but I’m already on him.

My elbow drills into his throat. He gags. My knee buries into his gut, and he folds like wet paper.

He flails, catches me across the jaw. I taste blood. Metallic. Sweet.

My hand snakes up, grabbing a fistful of his greasy hair. “You want fresh meat?” I hiss into his ear. “I’ll give you something raw .”

I shove him backward. He stumbles, slips on blood. I grab the dropped shiv and drive it up through the meat of his side, right under the ribcage. He gasps like a punctured balloon, gurgling, staring.

But I’m not done.

I drag the blade down slowly. Chin to belly. Skin parts like rotten fruit. A string of intestine spills out and slaps the floor wetly.

He’s screaming now, flailing like a fish, and all I can think of is Mrs. Bishop. That night behind her house. The way her guts slid over my body while she moaned my name like I was god.

Dale twitches, sagging. Still alive, barely.

Perfect.

I grab him by the collar, blood-slick, and shove him into the industrial washer. Limbs flopping like a broken puppet. I fold him in—arms, legs, slack jaw. Slam the door shut.

“Let’s get you clean, sweetheart.”

The dial turns— spin Cycle.

The machine jerks to life with a groan. Then it roars.

Whunk. Thump. Whunk.

Flesh against steel. Bone knocking against the drum. Blood fogging the glass like steam.

I glance at Gabriel.

Still pressed against the far wall, Gabriel trembles—shoulders tight, chest shuddering like he’s trying not to cry. Blood drips from the slice on his wrist, painting a line down his pale arm, staining the hem of his torn shirt. Dale’s parting gift.

“You just let him pin you, huh?” I mutter, stepping toward him. “Didn’t fight. Didn’t scream. Didn’t do a goddamn thing except stand there and take it.”

Gabriel’s lips move, but nothing comes out.

I laugh. Low. Cold.

“Fucking hell,” I whisper, like I’m speaking to a scared little dog. “Look at you. Shaking like a leaf, bleeding like a stuck pig, and still trying to play innocent.”

He flinches when I reach for him, but I grab his wrist anyway, running my thumb along the cut. His breath catches, eyes wide. He’s too scared to pull away.

“Dale was a goddamn mess. Fried up like a Sunday special by your favorite quack in a lab coat. And even he knew what to do when he saw you alone.”

I smear his blood along his cheek with the same hand. He blinks at me, stunned. Broken.

“You’re lucky I got there first,” I say, voice dropping. “Real fucking lucky. ‘Cause if he’d laid one more finger on you…” I trail off. Let the thought hang heavy.

Truth is, I’m not just pissed Dale tried to chew on him, I’m pissed he got that close at all. Close enough to breathe Gabriel in. To put his filthy fucking hands on him.

That’s mine.

My puppet. My toy. Mine to break. Not anyone else’s.

I back him into the wall, press against him—one hand gripping his hip, the other holding Dale’s shiv, now pressed right to Gabriel’s throat. Just the flat edge. Just enough to remind him he’s not safe.

“You really think you’re gonna last in here?” I sneer, brushing hair back from his face. “A soft little thing like you? This place will chew you up, fuck your skull, and spit you out before breakfast.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Gabriel whispers shakily.

“No,” I murmur, leaning in close. “But you sure as fuck need it.”

His pulse throbs under the blade. His breath hiccups when I slide my thigh between his legs and find him hard. Already. That fast.

He’s leaking into his briefs, his cock straining under the flimsy fabric. I palm it through the cotton. He whines, hips twitching. It’s thick and anxious, heat pulsing off him like shame.

“Poor thing,” I croon. “All scared and hard. What’s wrong with you?”

He says nothing. Just bites his bottom lip like that might hide the way his body’s betraying him.

I shove my hand into his waistband, wrap my fingers around him. Hot. Smooth. Already wet at the tip.

He gasps sharply. Eyes fluttering, mouth slack.

“You scared?” I ask.

He nods, dazed.

“You should be,” I say, stroking him slowly. “But lucky for you, I’m offering protection. You wanna live? You tie yourself to the worst monster in this fucking asylum. That’s me, sweetheart. Not because I’m kind. Because I’m cruel enough to keep the others out.”

“Why would you protect me?” he pants.

I tighten my grip. Pump him once, twice, just enough to feel his thighs quiver.

“Because I like how pathetic you are.”

His breath shudders. Another drop of precum slicks my fingers. I smear it along his tip with my thumb, then lift it to my mouth. Blood and salt. Shame and want.

I suck it off slow, eyes locked to his.

“Filthy little thing,” I murmur. “Taste just like you look—desperate.”

“I—please…” His voice breaks.

“You want this?”

“Yes,” he breathes.

“You wanna be mine?”

“Yes. Please… I don’t wanna be alone in here. I’ll be good. I swear.”

I press the blade firmer to his throat, watching his pulse flutter under the steel. I can hear the alarms now—distant but getting closer. Shouts. Boots hammering down the corridor.

Still, I don’t rush.

“Prove it.”

He nods quickly, swallowing hard. “I will. Just… don’t leave me.”

I lick the tear slipping down his cheek.

Then I back off. Just like that. Hand gone. Blade gone.

Gabriel stumbles against the wall, cock still stiff, soaked, dripping. His hands curl into fists. His breath’s ragged. He looks ruined.

And the door behind us slams open.

Orderlies pour in, shouting. Two grab me. I don’t fight. Just laugh as they pin me down, strap my arms, haul me away.

Because I already won.

He’ll be thinking about me now.

Every second.

Every twitch.

Every fucking time he touches himself in the dark and doesn’t come.

I’ll be in his head.

Just where I belong.