Chapter 3 #2
“We like to broaden the patients’ horizons. Art classes, workshops, and exercise are just a few of the extra-curricular activities you will be expected to assist with.”
I’m suddenly distracted by thoughts of extra-curricular activities I’d happily indulge in with a certain patient in particular, but I manage to get out a firm “duly noted,” and she seems content with my answer.
Either that or she knows I’m lying out of my arse about everything, and she’s waiting for me to fall on my face.
Glancing down at my application form in her hand, I wait for the next question, but it never comes.
Folding it, she tucks it away into her pocket and continues with the tour.
“Here at Blackwood, we pride ourselves on our patients, our family,” she reiterates, and I can’t help but mentally log the irony of the old woman rocking in the corner humming an Elvis classic while removing all her clothes; the young orderly who looks seventeen at most begging her to stop as he tries to re-button what she’s already slipped off.
I reckon Lenora would get a kick out of the history lurking in my family tree.
I remind myself where we are and offer the poor orderly a sympathetic smile as he administers the woman a sedative via a needle through her arm. She goes lax in his hold, and there is already a wheelchair waiting.“I imagine it’s never dull here.”
“I guess that depends on your definition of dull,” Lenora states stone-faced.
I wonder how my new boss makes it through the day with that mighty large stick up her arse, but I decide to keep that question to myself.
“Your position as a ward assist is basically pill pusher status, with some minor babysitting tasks. I’m sure that isn’t too hard, even for you. We don’t want you worrying your pretty little head with learning a new skill set.”
I note the condescension in her tone but don’t react.
My appearance shouldn’t matter, yet her critical appraisal of my physique makes me suspicious of her intentions, like I’m a thoroughbred she’s considering entering into the Grand National.
It also begs the question, what had happened to the women in this job before me?
Ezra’s reference to the former female employees continues to bother me.
Thoughts of the alternative and Mr. Marlowe back in town waiting for me to come crawling for a job means i’ll push back any concerns I have for now.
Stroking her fingers down the length of my plait, a breath hitches in my throat at her unwanted proximity.
Her stifling floral perfume filling my nose.
If callousness had a scent, it would be whatever lingers beneath Lenora’s attempt to mask it with Chanel No 5.
Lowering her voice, her breath caressing my throat, her face close enough that I can see the icy puffs of slate darkening her crystal blue eyes, she whispers, “Administer the drugs that will make them less likely to converse with imaginary demons and make sure they aren’t hanging themselves from the rafters, and you’re good to go.
A monkey could do your job, so let’s see to it that I’ve no need to remind you of your duties.
Here at Blackwood, I don’t enjoy having to repeat myself. ”
Her word is final as I gulp down the lump lodged in my throat. Tightening my gloved hands into fists, I offer her a simple smile to let her know I understand.
“You will have today to settle in. Clive at reception will provide you with your room key, Jeremy will check your bag for contraband, and then the Knox brothers will show you where you are staying.”
“A well-oiled machine,” I chirp with a thumbs up. I could kick myself; even now, I’m trying to appeal to the softer side of my new boss. Alert the papers—she clearly doesn’t have one. Surly with a side order of bitch face is all she’s willing to give me.
“I expect nothing but excellence, Miss Morgrieves, you’ll do well to remember that.” Her attempt at a smile is laughable and does nothing but increase the unease swimming around in my belly. “The gloves?” she asks mid turn.
Her criticising stare focuses on my hands as I wind my fingers together, my skin prickling.
I quickly avert my eyes, taking a deep breath to calm my anxiety.
I subtly shift her attention away from my gloves.
Memories of Doc ordering his second-in-command to continue slicing at my fingers until three of them dropped to the floor engulf me, bile rising in my throat as the acrid stench of the smelling salts hits me as vividly as it did that day when I’d begged him to kill me.
The comforting warmth of my spilt blood when I could finally wallow in unconsciousness, because Doc had tired of my cries was a strange, yet soothing, feeling.
The gloves will stay. I’ll fight for that if I have to.
“I have sensitive skin. I must wear them at all times. Doc’s orders.
” I shudder at the double reference of using my dead captor’s name in a remark that to most is a light-hearted quip.
I’m overselling the smile I’m plastering on my face, and I know it, but if I lose the smile, my tears will betray me.
Lenora eyes me shrewdly, the tip of a genuine mocking smile lifting the edges of her thin mouth briefly.
Her insistence for me to fall in line lingers on a bated breath.
Thankfully, she takes pity on me and lets any conversation regarding my gloves die on her next hurried exhale.
“I have standards, Miss Morgrieves. Fail to abide by them, and you might not favour the outcome.”
I nod obediently and say nothing more as I watch her turn and leave.
For someone who doesn’t like repeating herself she’s damn good at it.
Two orderlies dressed in white scrubs with high necks and sleeves that hang over to their fingers turn as she passes them.
Like loyal dogs, they are subservient and aware of every step she makes as their bodies mirror hers, they move in sync a few steps behind her like two halves of one entity, almost gliding, their hunched postures shaving off a few inches from their already imposing heights.
Nothing here feels like anything you would classify as ‘normal,’ not that I’m a fan of that word. I’ve always considered ‘normal’ as an overrated term for boring people. I try to push away the unease that has latched itself to my throat like a leash, my tongue darting out to wet my lips.
Heat trickles down the nape of my neck, the looming feeling of being watched firing alerts in my overworked brain.
His eyes are on me from across the room the second I enter, steady and unhurried like he is in no rush to look away, my skin prickling under his perusal.
When I give into the pull, a flicker of something unreadable passes over his face.
Intrigue maybe, or amusement. A strange warmth curls low in my belly, unexpected but not unwelcome.
I’m not sure why he’s watching me, but I can’t say I hate it.
I know I shouldn’t like the intensity of his attention as much as I do after the little time I’ve known him.
Surrounded by the unfamiliar, he seems to be the only anchor that unravels the knotted ball of nerves low in my gut.
My chest tightening as though I’m submerged underwater.
Unable to break eye contact with him now as a stuttered inhale burns my lungs, my heart thumping in my ears and drowning out the rest of the world. Does he know what he’s doing to me?
‘Don’t fall for the insane patient, Cara. Your father taught you better than that.’
The irony in my current thought process is that my father only ever taught me two things: how to bail and how to identify shady people—neither of which are helping me right now because all I want to do is climb inside Ezra’s head, shuffle around in the lingering darkness, and find out what makes him tick.
I have a sneaking suspicion my life here at Blackwood will be anything but normal.