Page 4 of Writhe (Wellard Asylum)

She leans in. “Word is, the nurses are keeping an extra-close eye on you. Something about a special therapy program. Sounds fancy, doesn’t it?”

I blink, my face giving nothing away, though my stomach twists. Special therapy program? That could mean anything. And nothing good.

“Sounds like bullshit to me.”

It sounds like bullshit because I don’t want any special treatment.

I want to spend my days doing the bare minimum without having to actually be in prison.

If they choose me for some experimental treatment .

. . nope, I refuse to even think about the possibility.

Not happening. Therapy, maybe some ECT. Nothing else. Fuck them.

Rina smirks, clearly enjoying the reaction she thinks she’s coaxing out of me. “Sure, keep telling yourself that. But if it’s true, maybe you should ask Jacob to protect you. You know, in case the CIA really is involved.”

This time, I let the corner of my mouth lift in a faint smirk. “Thanks for the tip, Rina. I’ll get right on that.”

She beams, as if she’s won some kind of game. “That’s what I’m here for, bestie. Just looking out for you.”

I watch her flounce off to bother someone else, her floral perfume lingering in the air. Fake friends are better than enemies in this place, but just barely.

Tuesdays are art days. An art teacher is brought in to teach us some sort of lesson and I, and all the other loonies, get together and attempt to be creative.

How fucking fantastic.

I swirl my brush in a thick glob of crimson before dragging it across the canvas in long, sweeping strokes. The color seeps into the fabric like fresh blood. It soothes me.

I press harder, watching the bristles splay as the paint thickens, coats, glistens.

I smear it with the side of my thumb, feeling the slick texture between my fingers, the way it clings to my skin like something alive.

There’s a rhythm to this. Stroke, press, smear.

A ritual. A memory. A prayer. The red sinks deep into the canvas of dark, angry veins that spread like fractures in porcelain.

Porcelain.

Like the doll my mother gave me when I was a girl.

It had perfectly painted lips, frozen in a never-ending hush, soft ringlets curled against its cold cheeks, and delicate hands, forever resting in its lap.

It was beautiful. Unblemished. Until my brother shattered it on the linoleum floor. He always ruined everything.

I dig the brush into the canvas now, slashing the red into a mouth, wide and gaping.

I carve out eyes with black—hollow and staring—paint streaking like tears.

The doll’s head, jagged at the edges where it had splintered, still smiles at me in memory, just as it had when I picked up the broken pieces.

A man stares at me from across the room.

He’s so tall that he’s hunched over his canvas, but his eyes continue to glance over at me nervously.

He’s so thin, his skin stretching over his bones, barely caging them in.

His eyes are deep-set and dark, bottomless pits of nothingness.

I blink a few times just to make sure I’m not looking at Slenderman, but his face is hauntingly real, painfully there.

He has sickly, ghost-pale skin with lips that never part to speak but still twitch as the instructor goes over and talks to the person beside him.

He’s mesmerizing. In the worst way.

I drag my gaze away, forcing my focus back on my work. The red is still wet, gleaming under the harsh artificial lights. I press harder, watching it drip. The streaks curve and run, and I pretend I’m painting something beautiful. Something whole.

Across the room, something clatters. A cup of murky paint water spills across the table, a slow-moving tide of filth spreading across the floor. The patient responsible, James, flinches, hands trembling as they reach for the mess.

Too late.

Booted footsteps thunder toward him as an orderly crosses the room in three swift strides. A meaty fist tangles James’s hair, yanking him upright with a sharp jerk. The cup falls, spinning wildly before coming to rest in the spreading puddle.

“Look what you did, you little freak.”

James whimpers and it only makes it worse. The male orderly slams James’s head against the cinder block wall. Hard. The crack echoes and squelches.

Again.

And again.

A wet, rhythmic beating of flesh against stone.

Something coils tight in my belly.

The patient sags, knees buckling, but the orderly doesn’t let them fall. He keeps going, like he’s trying to crack James open—spill something inside. The only thing that comes out is red and beautiful.

His blood.

No one moves.

The other patients keep painting, keep pretending. I do too. My brush dips into the blue, and I smear another stroke across the canvas, my pulse hammering in my throat. James makes a weak noise—a gurgle—and finally, mercifully, the orderly lets them drop.

Into a twitching, crumpled heap on the floor.

The orderly clicks his tongue, wiping his hand on his uniform like he’s touched something dirty. “Clean it up.” His voice is flat, bored.

No one moves.

Another orderly, a woman this time, sighs, and grabs James by the ankles, dragging him out like he’s discarded trash.

The streak of blood he left behind glistens under the lights—the only proof that he was even here.

I force myself to breathe, slow and even, fighting the nausea rolling in my gut.

My hands shake as I dip my brush into the red.

The color blooms purple across the canvas.

I wonder what it would look like if it were the orderlies’ blood dripping down my canvas instead.

“You shouldn’t stare,” Rina whispers.

I don’t look over at her. I just focus on my canvas.

“Why not?”

“They’ll think you care.”

I clench my teeth, tightening my grip on the brush until my knuckles ache. I force myself to paint, to pretend, to submit. It’s the only way to survive.