Page 44 of The Birthday Girl
O ne year and six months later…
Tahlia woke beneath a ceiling that never went dark, her body trapped against a mattress so thin that it reminded her of her situation with every shift of her bones. It was her birthday. She was another year older, and another birthday spent alone.
Closing her eyes, she rolled onto her stomach, shoving her arms beneath the flat pillow that smelled of industrial detergent. Her fingertips brushed against something solid, and the touch sent a jolt through her body. She blinked, propped herself up on her elbows, and peeled back the pillowcase.
There, nestled in the thin cotton, lay a small parcel wrapped in what looked like torn notebook paper. Her lips curved upward.
She’d watched the guards for months now. Officer Diaz kept his son’s soccer schedule scribbled on the palm of his hand, and Mendoza couldn’t remember his own locker combination. Hell, they barely remembered their shifts, let alone a patient’s birthday, so she knew it wasn’t from them.
She pulled the parcel from its hiding place and stripped away the paper. Inside lay a metal file that winked in the dim light, a length of wire slim enough to probe a lock, a small key, and beneath them all, a neatly folded square of paper.
Happy Birthday, Tahlia, my love.
Tonight is your curtain call. Use those items to free yourself, then meet me at the address below.
Her fingers lingered on the note, tracing the beautiful script, but she didn’t move for the door.
It wasn’t time yet. She tucked the tools back into the parcel and slid it beneath her pillow once more.
Timing was everything. She would wait until the ward slept, then, and only then, would she claim her gift.
The hours crawled by with the slow pace of institutional life.
Tahlia navigated her daily routine with compliance, attending group therapy where she spoke about her progress and rehabilitation.
Dr. Miles nodded approvingly at her responses, unaware that every word had been calculated to maintain the illusion of a model patient.
In the recreation room, she watched the other patients with detached interest. Marcus, the first person she met when she arrived, rocked in his corner, whispering to himself about the voices that never quieted.
Sarah picked at her fingernails until they bled, her anxiety medication doing little to calm the tremors that had plagued her since her arrival.
They were broken in ways that Tahlia recognized but couldn’t feel.
Their pain was genuine, where hers had crystallized into something harder and more useful.
She understood now that suffering could be weaponized and refined into something deadly.
The others had allowed their trauma to consume them.
However, Tahlia had learned to feed on hers.
When evening medication rounds began, she palmed the small white pills Dr. Miles prescribed for her supposed anxiety disorder.
The staff no longer checked beneath her tongue, not after eighteen months of perfect compliance.
They had no idea she had been storing her clarity, hoarding it like a precious resource, while they believed her medicated into submission.
The night shift arrived with their squeaking shoes and hushed conversations.
Officer Horde settled into his chair at the nurses’ station and pulled out his phone to scroll through social media, while his partner, Officer Chen, made her rounds.
Neither of them noticed the way her chest no longer rose in the heavy rhythm of sleep but lifted in quiet, measured pulls, each breath too controlled to belong to dreams.
When everything grew quiet, Tahlia opened her eyes and lay still, listening to the shuffle of Chen’s footsteps fade down the corridor, then to the squeak of Horde’s chair as he shifted his weight.
A faint vibration buzzed against the desk when his phone lit again, proof that his attention was elsewhere.
She slipped her hand beneath the pillow and retrieved the parcel. The metal file felt cold against her palm, its serrated edge promising freedom. The wire coiled around her finger like a serpent, and the small key pressed into her flesh with the weight of possibility.
Tahlia rose from the bed with practiced silence, her bare feet finding the spots on the floor where the linoleum wouldn’t creak. The door’s lock mechanism was standard institutional grade, designed to keep the disturbed inside rather than the determined out.
The wire slid into the lock, and she worked her fingers with the patience of someone who understood that freedom was measured in millimeters, not moments. A soft click rewarded her efforts, and the door yielded to her touch.
When the door clicked open, she didn’t pause to marvel. She stepped through barefoot, her shadow stretching thin beneath the light. The guards shifted in their chairs, unaware of her movements, and the patients groaned in their sleep.
Tahlia tiptoed down the hallway, stopping to check every corner before she pressed forward, moving past them like a phantom.
She slipped into the supply alcove and spotted a folded nurse’s uniform on the cart.
Tugging it on quickly, she adjusted the pants at her waist and buttoned the top, glancing down the hallway every few seconds.
She was fastening the last button when a nurse rounded the corner.
Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, both women froze.
Then the nurse’s mouth opened to scream, but before she could, Tahlia lunged at her.
The laundry bag slid from the nurse’s shoulder as she drove her sideways into the wall.
The crack of impact stole the air from the nurse’s lungs, and before she could recover, Tahlia’s elbow caught her under the chin.
The woman crumpled with a muffled groan.
Breathing hard, Tahlia crouched and unclipped the ID badge from the lanyard, shoving it into her pocket. She dragged the unconscious body into the nearest closet, the wheels of a mop bucket rattling as she pushed it aside.
The nurse’s head lolled, hair sticking to her cheek, as Tahlia tore a strip from a sheet and bound her wrists tight.
She tied a second around her ankles, then one around her mouth, quick and messy but strong enough to hold.
The door shut on a soft groan of hinges, leaving the woman buried in bleach and linens.
Straightening her uniform, Tahlia tiptoed down the hallway, pausing at every corner before pressing forward. She kept to the shadows, moving past the nurses’ station and the glow of phones, a phantom sliding through the cracks of the institution.
Ten minutes later, the final door gave way with a hollow clang, and the night spilled over her like water. Cool air swept across her skin, so different from the stale disinfectant stench she had lived in for months.
For a second, her knees nearly buckled, not from weakness, but from the shock of freedom.
She tilted her face to the sky. The stars looked scattered and endless, each one a pinprick reminder that the world was still vast, and still hers to touch.
A laugh tore from her chest, carrying a high on the rush pounding in her veins.
Her heart drummed like she had been sprinting, though she stood still, savoring the pulse of adrenaline that made her feel invincible.
Relief slid through her first, then joy. Freedom was better than any pill and was cleaner than any therapy. She stretched her arms wide, the fabric of the stolen uniform flapping against her body, and spun once beneath the moonlight.
Tahlia felt alive.
Remembering she had somewhere to be, Tahlia tugged the folded letter from her bra and traced the address with her eyes until it burned into memory. She tucked it back, smoothed her hair, and stepped onto the roadside.
When a beat-up sedan slowed, she leaned toward the window with a shaky smile, her voice breaking just enough to sell the story.
“My boyfriend kicked me out of his car, and I wasn’t able to grab my purse.
I have no phone, no money, nothing. Can you help me with a ride?
” She sniffled, wiping fake tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.
The driver looked her over, suspicion tugging at his features, but pity won. The lock clicked, and she slid into the backseat, masking triumph beneath a shiver.
Every mile that carried her closer to the address set her pulse racing faster.
The ride lasted twenty minutes, though to Tahlia it felt like twenty lifetimes strung together by the rattle of the sedan’s suspension.
The driver stole glances at her in the rearview mirror, some curious, some wary.
Tahlia kept her eyes on the window, fingers grazing the folded note hidden in her bra.
When he slowed at the corner, she checked the street sign against the address on the paper. Satisfied that she was in the right place, she leaned forward and told him to stop.
“Right here is fine,” she said, reaching for the handle. When the sedan pulled to the curb, she offered the driver a polite smile. “Thank you for the ride.”
She slipped out and shut the door. The car idled for a moment, then pulled away. The address led her to a narrow brick townhouse, its windows blacked out, and its door painted the color of dried blood. A single porch light glowed weakly, as if daring her to approach.
Tahlia’s pulse thrummed as she glanced once at the letter once more, then tucked it away and stepped forward. The key from the parcel slid into the lock, and the door opened without resistance. She hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, then stepped inside.
The first thing that hit her was the smell. The air reeked of sandalwood and something antiseptic, cloaked in the scent of incense. A brass lamp clicked on, its amber glow catching the rim of a whiskey glass and the glint of a silver watch on a wrist.