Page 6 of Lethal (Wellard Asylum #1)

M y body begins to tremble from the excess of emotions, and the aftereffects of being in close proximity to Wren and Bash.

I brace myself against my abandoned chair, vivid images of Wren’s angry face reappearing in my mind.

Breathe... just breathe, and come back to yourself.

Take control, so that no one can take it from you.

They’ve gotten under my skin again, and I’ve allowed it.

Not in an obvious way one expects of two psychotic serial killers, although Wren’s behavior is closer to what one would anticipate from a patient confined to Wellard.

Bash, however, manages to do it not with threats, outbursts, or theatrics.

Just his mere presence, and those deep gray-blue eyes that tear through me, seeing right into the depths of things that I try desperately to hide.

The ugliness that sullies every part of me, and cannot be dragged into the light.

He recognizes the darkness in me, the one that must be similar to his.

Maybe he can smell that taint, the failure, the deception.

Bash likes the slow, subtle game, the chase.

He uses his charm the way other men use knives.

Dangerous. Methodical. Broken. He is all those things and so much more, they both are.

I’m already in too deep, even after just a dozen sessions, and I feel my willpower and resistance waning.

It’s not that I don’t see the evil in them.

It oozes from every one of their cells. No, that isn’t the problem at all, it’s that I’m drawn to it, and want to immerse myself in it. That is a huge fucking problem.

“Cat, please, I’m so scared, please come take me from this place. They’re doing things to me, hurting me, Cat, please!”

The urge to vomit, and rage against everything happening all at once fills me, but instead of feeding my needs, I suppress them, forcing my control back into place, like shackles tightly woven over my emotions.

I shuffle over to my desk and sit down slowly, my spine still too straight and rigid, and my body still battling fight or flight.

My heartbeat echoes in my ears, a deep thumping that causes a headache to begin at my temples.

Why am I allowing myself to react this way?

I need to get my shit together. This is not me.

I am not this person who allows any outside interference with my mission.

The image of a pair of beautiful, dark green eyes, and thick blonde hair, on a sad, small face appears in the forefront of my mind.

“What are you doing, sweetheart? You look so sad.” I sit down beside her, stroking her silky hair, as she clutches tightly to a stuffed giraffe she should have outgrown the need for long ago. “Didn’t you have dance practice today? Shouldn’t you be at Ms. Hall’s now?”

Her lip trembles, as her nose sinks deep into the giraffe’s soft fur. “I... I didn’t want... to go.” Her voice is so low that I can barely make out the mumbled words, and she won’t meet my gaze.

“Does your mom know you didn’t go?” I question, concern filling me.

She loves dance, so why, all of a sudden, doesn’t she want to go?

I brush my hand down her back, and she flinches at my touch, causing my eyebrows to shoot right into my hair with confusion.

“Did you hurt yourself, sweetie?” I reach for the hem of her shirt, and she leaps off the bed in a rush, as if my touch were burning her.

“I... I just didn’t want to go! It doesn’t matter anyway, why do you care, Cat?!”

She won’t meet my gaze, and I observe how she tightens her arms around her torso, using the stuffed animal as a shield.

What the hell is happening here? “Is someone bullying you at dance? Is it one of the older girls? You can tell me, I’ll go there with you, and straighten them out. No one gets to hurt you, sweetheart.”

A harsh chuckle leaves her lips, as her eyes fill with tears, that spill over her youthful cheeks.

“No one at dance is hurting me, Cat. I just don’t want to be there anymore, I don’t want to be anywhere.

Just leave me alone!” She shouts, turns, and runs out of the room, the sound of her feet racing away on the hardwood, loud and unforgiving.

I urge myself out of the memory, before I have a complete mental breakdown.

My hand slides down my face, and swipes at the tear that has made its way toward my jaw.

I can’t let those memories overwhelm me here.

I have to keep moving forward. I flip open the leather-bound case file marked ‘Norwood, Wren M’.

The pages bleed together with images, words, and police transcripts.

Stained things. Twisted things. Tragic things.

A faint metallic scent hangs in the air, mixed with dust, age, and decay, causing my flesh to crawl.

Perhaps it’s from the ancient radiator in the corner of the room, or maybe it’s from the contents of the folder; either way, I hate the scent.

My eyes stare down at the blank page for a moment before writing.

The subject was initially reasonably lucid and calm. Represented typical behavioral affect: disarming, intelligent, self-aware.

Spoke initially only in distorted nursery rhymes, as has been previously noted in other sessions.

A notable increase in personal targeting was observed in this session, with remarks focusing on clothing, voice, and body language.

Demonstrates escalating emotional fixation, masked by therapeutic rapport.

Quickly escalated to labile affect: Rapid and unpredictable shifts in emotions, and agitation, with questions about his mood.

Refers again to ‘the voices’. When questioned further, it led to an increase in agitation, violent thoughts, and outward threats.

Transference symptoms are developing, and include increased inappropriate thoughts of a sexual nature.

Patient’s phrasing is deliberate, possessive, and ritualistic.

Possible need to increase his dosage, if his mood and behavior continue to escalate.

The overhead lights flicker ominously, causing shadows to grow menacingly in the corners of the office, as if they have sharp teeth just waiting to take a bite out of me.

A chill skates down my back, as my eyes flick over the two empty metal chairs bolted to the floor, and a sense of morbid longing mixes with revulsion.

Even now, I’m sure I can still spot where Wren’s blood has stained the metal frame, and it has an instant hunger rising within me. Focus, Cat, we have a job to do here.

I pry my eyes away, and flip back to the beginning of the thick file from when Wren and Bash were first brought to Wellard Asylum.

The Norwood twins stare up at me from their booking photos, their identical smirks too knowing and calm, as if they don’t fear what will happen to them.

One of them has a blood-smeared cheek. The other winked for the camera, as if this is all just a game to them, and they don’t fear the repercussions of their actions.

I can tell, just by the photo, which is which.

Even in a photograph, they have a presence, a density, and darkness about them.

Like something ancient and wrong, made flesh, that tries to wrap itself around you as it clings to your life essence.

They’ve been incarcerated here since they were caught two years ago, never having spent any time in a maximum security penitentiary, as their crimes would have demanded. I took over their treatment after their last psychiatrist up and quit without notice, and they haven’t been seen since.

Male, identical twin. Age 31. Born in Red Deer, Louisiana.

Affiliated with the traveling ‘Red Pavement Circus’.

14 confirmed victims. Likely more. Neither brother has ever admitted to the kidnappings or murders.

M.O.: lured victims with circus performances, dressed as a clown. Torture. Mutilation. Ritualistic cannibalism. Serial sexual homicide.

Psychological classification: extreme shared psychosis, probable folie à deux. Antisocial personality disorder and schizophrenia are present. Neuroticism is also observed. Emotional Dysregulation and PTSD are present in brothers.

Convictions: 12 cases of first-degree murder, 10 cases of sexual assault, 7 cases of aggravated assault, and 10 cases of aggravated kidnapping.

Sentence: Remanded to life at Wellard Asylum without the possibility of parole.

Their files read like a gruesome Hollywood horror tale, the likes of which you wouldn’t think possible, for two humans to commit such heinous crimes, but here they are locked in Wellard, found guilty, and sentenced to spend their lives within these walls.

It’s better than the alternative, since they could have been executed by the state.

For some reason, the thought of that happening makes my chest feel tight, and just like I’ve been doing for weeks now, I ignore the professional impropriety of it.

I need to see them for what they are, and not romanticize what they’ve done.

They’re the worst of humankind; they prey on unsuspecting victims. Just because they’re handsome, and can be charming when they want to be, doesn’t mean that’s who they truly are.

This file, with page after page of pain, blood, violence, and madness, depicts the evil they have committed, without any sign of remorse for their actions.

They’re monsters. I pull out some of the photos documenting the atrocities they committed on their victims. Photos, police body cam stills, interview transcripts, smears of bright red, unlimbed bodies, and teethmarks, all greet my sight.

An image peeks out of the file’s flap, of a young dark-haired woman with dark eyes, and it catches my glance.

She’s wearing a torn-up white lab coat, her face and neck clearly all bruised and bloody.

Was she an employee here at Wellard who was injured by the twins?

So many dangerous unknowns, so many secrets.