Chapter 10
My back is against the wall, knees drawn to my chest, chin tucked. Waiting.
Another cycle of waiting.
Waiting for them to decide my fate.
For the interminable hours to drag into days.
For the moment when the lights flicker, promising release, but knowing only that release is a carefully constructed cage.
My fingers trace the phantom shape of the knife hidden under my clothes. It’s a blunt thing, but it doesn’t matter. It’s still a knife.
How I managed to steal it, I don’t know.
Maybe they’ve grown lax about my captivity.
Maybe they’ve mistaken my placidity for acceptance of my fate.
It doesn’t really matter what the reasons are, it’s their stupidity that’s given me this chance.
Perhaps this is God’s will, god’s one show of favour to me.
If it is, if this is an act of mercy granted to me by the divine himself, then I’d be a fool not to take it. A fool and a sinner too.
The waiting has been the worst part. The waiting always is.
Lying here, breathing shallowly, listening to the faint hum of the room fade, counting the seconds until the lights dimmed. Every tick of the clock has been a nail in my coffin.
But tonight? I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t let myself get caught in that purgatory. I needed to act, I needed to do something.
I shut my eyes and I can see him, Magnus Blake, sitting high above me in his grand, gilded home. He thinks he’s won. He thinks he’s broken me, that he’s got the upper hand. And maybe, maybe this will hurt him. Just a little.
The thought is a grim, bitter spike of something almost like satisfaction.
Taking away what they took from me. This here is my tiny, poisonous revenge, and it makes me smile because it’s the only power I have left.
Power over death. Power over him.
The lights go out, and the sudden darkness is a relief and a shield. My heart thuds against my ribs, loud and frantic. Does the camera still see? I don’t have the mental capacity to dwell on that, to ponder it.
It’s my birthday. At least, it was two weeks ago. They did nothing to celebrate that fact, but this here feels like a little gift, a little party for myself. If luck goes my way, it’ll be the last one I have on this earth.
I glance over at where I know my plant is sitting and bury the sadness. It feels like a betrayal to be doing this, to be leaving it behind. What will its fate be once I am gone? Will they simply toss it out? Discard it alongside my lifeless corpse?
I shake my head, burying those thoughts. I cannot live for a plant alone. And besides, in less than three years I will be gone from this place. I will be removed. I cannot control what happens to it once that happens.
But I can control what happens to me.
My hands are trembling as I pull the knife out.
I grip it tightly, so tightly my knuckles hurt.
The blade is dull, I know that from the way it cut through the grapefruit earlier, from the way I had to carve and carve and carve.
Will I have to do that with my own flesh too?
It won’t be easy. It won’t clean up nicely, but I don’t care about that.
I care about the finality. The act. I need to feel it.
I slice my arm, hard, through the thin fabric of my pyjamas. The dull edge catches, resists, and sinks in with a ragged tearing sound. Pain explodes, sharp and agonizing.
It’s not deep, though.
The blade refuses to go deep.
I grunt, clench my muscles, thinking of my mother, thinking of my father too and I dig with all the force I have left.
Blood wells up, dark and wet against the fabric.
Not enough. Not deep enough.
The dull edge is a joke.
It’s a pathetic, mocking imitation of death.
I try my wrist. Again, the resistance is there, the cut far too fucking shallow. My blood drips onto the floor, but it’s not nearly enough.
I try my thigh. Same thing. This stupid, blunt thing! It’s not doing anything! It’s just… cutting. Aching. Bleeding. But not dying.
Then the door crashes open. Not the silent click like usual, but a violent, echoing BANG that shakes the walls. My heart nearly stops, and the knife clatters to the floor with a damning sound.
Two men pour in. They don’t waste time looking around; their eyes are fixed on me, on the struggle I’ve failed to make. One lunges, and a hand like a steel clamp grabs my wrist, fingers digging into my flesh even as he twists and wrenches me around.
A cold collar, hard and metallic snaps around my neck, biting into my skin. Before I can even register the shock, a jolt travels through my body, making me cry out.
They keep shocking me, their hands on my shoulders pinning me down until the muscles in my arms and shoulders scream in protest and the fight spills out of me. Leaving me weak and shaking, staring up at the suddenly so bright overhead light.
Mrs Vale’s face appears, her eyes cruel, mocking.
Leaning down, she smiles, an unpleasant curve of the lips. Her breath smells faintly of both expensive perfume and disinfectant.
Her fingers brush against my unruly hair in a manner far too fucking delicate.
“Couldn’t even manage a clean attempt, Grace,” she says, her voice dripping with faux pity and scorn.
She straightens up, her gaze sweeping over my cuts, over the blood staining my clothes.
“Barely a graze, that’s all. Did you even want to try?
Or was this all just for some pitiful need for attention? ”
“Fuck you.” I spit back, losing the facade, losing the calm, losing grip of what little sanity I have left.
She lets out a chuckle as the men start tying my wrists and ankles, binding me to the cold metal frame of the bed.
“Soon,” She replies. “Only a few more years, and then I’ll be there. We’ll all be there, witnessing your ruin.”