Chapter 6
six
For the first time in almost fifteen years, it felt like she could stretch her legs and let her inner demons embrace their freedom.
There were years that she’d given up hope of walking amongst the plebeians of the world. Her soul bled art, and her fingers burned to express.
Her soul had always embraced death and blood and pain. Nothing gave her a bigger high than cutting herself and watching the bright red blood drip and splatter over a fresh, white canvas.
Her hand immediately went to her pocket to stroke her first purchase after she walked out of purgatory, a beautiful pocketknife with a carved wooden handle and a wickedly sharp blade. It had cost her a pretty penny, but she’d extorted quite a sum from her naughty therapist.
Once good old Dr. Portman watched a few videos of their “special” therapy sessions—her sucking him off, bent over his desk, him on his knees, and her personal favorite, him coming all over her face while he called her his dirty little psycho—it hadn’t taken much convincing to fork over his life savings and write up a glowing reference stating that she was no longer a threat to society.
Healed.
Reformed.
She hoped he would spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. He really should. She might get bored once her long anticipated revenge was finalized.
As she walked the busy footpath, she avoided her reflection. She’d be lying if she said her profile didn’t have bile gurgling in the back of her throat, while the voices threatened to cut the sagging skin from her body.
“It would be nice to have even a modicum of support,” she growled under her breath to the voices who were constantly haranguing. “I’m the one who got us out of that place, and I won’t have you underplaying my efforts.”
She nodded to a mother pushing a pram, and a group of men laughing and smoking cigars.
She felt all her sensitive bits tingle when one of the men tipped his hat in her direction.
The idea of having sexual relations with a man who wasn’t her disgusting pig of a therapist had her panties practically dripping.
“You do know what you look like, yes?” The most derogatory of her voices snarked.
She felt her body stiffen in offense. “Need I remind you that you and your cronies are the reason we even caught the attention of the authorities and ended up in that looney bin?
“You are the reason. Not me. You.”
The voices used to make her harm herself over and over and over again, but she’d grown, matured.
Well over a decade locked away certainly helped with her insecurities. If she cut herself, it was because she wanted to, not because the cold voices said she had to “or else.”
“I wouldn’t take that tone. If we choose to exert ourselves, and we will if you start to bore us, we could make you walk over to that stone wall and start bashing your head in.” Another voice, the emotionless one, warned.
“Plastic surgery yourself, please.”
“You’re getting soft. You left your selfish whore of a mother alive and well.”
“Yeah. Dear old Mum loved seeing you in a cage, and you left that bitch to enjoy her Wednesday night Bingo.”
“I think your arms need more cuts. They’re the only thing that makes you interesting.”
She took a deep breath and appreciated the differences between Edinburgh and Dublin. Both cities had history, but Dublin had a stronger…vibe, intensity, playfulness.
As she zeroed in on her destination, she wondered if anyone from her past even thought of her. Did they miss her, despise her, wish her well, or hate her?
Her mother’s puny allowance while she was locked away was an insult. That weak bitch loved insulting her only child. “Joke’s on you, Mom. Might want to watch your back.”
She snorted in amusement, but honestly, her dried-up, untalented mother wasn’t even on her radar—she would be when funds demanded—but for now, her focus was on who locked her away.
Well, her focus was on the sister of who locked her away. And wasn’t that sweeter?
She grinned at a young child shoveling greasy, fried chips into his mouth, all the while imagining how Little Miss Embroidery adored the kitten’s broken neck draped over the steps of her stairwell.
It was the little things, she grinned at the memory. Kitties were so breakable, and so were little embroiderers.
Embroidery, not her choice of art, but who was she to naysay the prime minister’s wife? This was a scenario with so many options.
She’d been inside the girl’s attic. Sparse at best, a hovel at worst. But she knew desperation, and Margaret Morrow was desperate as fuck.
She heard herself giggle and loved the carefree noise. She’d just watched the young girl shower at a dirty gym, and while Margaret cried under the hot spray, she’d come up with her next psychological trap.
Making this young girl afraid of her own shadow gave her no monetary value. It didn’t give her back the years she’d lost behind the white walls of an insane asylum. It was about righting a wrong.
An eye for an eye.