Chapter 2
SIX MONTHS AGO…
Ipop my eyes open, one and then the other, as fog circles my brain, making it hard as hell to think straight.
I glance around the small room. The walls are a dingy white color, and the only window is equally filthy, as the rain outside beats against it.
The howling wind an eerie soundtrack, as reality dawns on me.
Wellard Asylum.
That’s right. I skinned that fucker alive, and didn’t know I was being recorded by some good samaritan. Yeah, that’s where I fucked up.
Witnesses.
The judge’s words echo in my mind.
“You are a danger, not only to yourself, but to the community at large. This court orders you to be committed to Wellard Asylum, to undergo diagnosis and treatment.”
I move to sit up and quickly notice the restraints. I can endure torture. I can handle almost anything. Almost. This is too fucking much.
Anything but this.
I struggle to get a breath as the panic sets in.
“One hundred. Ninety-Nine. Ninety-Eight.”
Closing my eyes tight, I fight my mind to stay in the present.
Don’t go back to that place, Raven.
My arms are restrained to the bed. I bet the door is locked too.
No! I try to scream, but it gets caught in my throat.
According to Google, 12.5% of the population in the United States suffers from claustrophobia. Small spaces alone aren’t a problem for me. It’s confinement in small dark places that sends my mind into a frenzy.
“Fuck!” I scream out, in a mixture of anger and frustration.
The cloudiness in my brain tells me I was drugged.
That I can cope with, but restraining and caging me is not an option.
When they brought me in, they laughed, and called me a psychopath.
That wasn’t news. I already fucking knew that people think I’m insane.
Restraining me though, that’s over the fucking line. They want a fucking psycho?
I’ll give them one.
I work to loosen the restraints. They’re white cotton pieces of fabric that are pretty easy to get out of.
Surely an asylum has better equipment than this.
It’s fucking embarrassing if this is how they intend to secure the insane.
Maybe the others don’t fight back. If they are left in a constantly drugged state, they wouldn’t be able to.
But I am not others, and every fucker that works here is about to find out I am not a man to fuck with.
I lie back on the bed, move the restraints so it looks like I’m still locked in place, and wait for someone to come in. Closing my eyes, I wait for what feels like hours. Since there’s no clock in this hellhole, I have no idea how long it takes before I hear the click of my door unlocking.
Keeping my eyes closed, I listen as heavy footsteps come closer. I’m sure it’s a man, but I wait, until I feel his breath wash over me, to pop my lids open and grab his arm, pulling it behind his back, as I jump up and slam him face down on the bed.
“How the hell?” He grunts into the bed, before I flip him to his back and punch him in the face repeatedly.
“This thin fucking fabric? I could’ve gotten out of that in my sleep.”
I grab his throat, squeezing with one hand, while I rifle through his pockets, to find something sharp, with the other.
Pulling out a case, I move to sit on top of his chest, and remove my hand from his throat, so I can unzip it and see what he brought for me.
He coughs and sputters, as I glance at the weird collection of items a doctor brought with him to examine a psych patient.
A small torch. Interesting. A knife, needles, a black box, pliers, zip ties, and, yes, my personal favorite, a scalpel.
Restraining me with zip ties would’ve been more effective.
I would’ve gotten out of them eventually, but not nearly as fast as the flimsy fabric I found around my wrists when I woke up.
“You came bearing gifts. How sweet of you.”
I grab the torch, and light it in front of his face, causing him to flinch, but not close enough to touch his skin. Fire is not my method of torture.
“What would you do with this, Doc?”
He trembles beneath me as his eyes widen.
“Please don’t.”
Tilting my head at him, I flash him a smile as the excitement builds. I enjoy playing with my victims. He brought this on himself by coming into my room with this shit that, I guarantee, he planned to use on me, for some fucking unknown reason.
“We’re going to play a little game of show and tell. I’ll show you the item, and you tell me the truth. If I’m satisfied with your answer, I won’t use it on you. If I’m not, well-”
I chuckle loudly.
“You get the idea, Doc.”
I light the torch again, waiting for him to answer.
“To burn skin. Torture.”
I narrow my gaze at him as I wonder if he would’ve used it on me, but I don’t bother to ask, somehow knowing the answer. I skip the knife, because its use is pretty obvious. Instead, I hold up the needles.
“T-They get shoved under the nails.”
I shake my head with disgust, as I hold up the small black box.
“What’s this?”
“Noise box,” he answers with a shake to his voice.
I toss it on the side of the bed and ask the obvious question.
“What the fuck is that for?”
Swallowing thickly, he responds, “It makes high-pitched squealing sounds. It’s a form of mental torture. After five minutes, it begins to drive someone out of their mind.”
Isn’t everyone here already out of their mind? That’s the point, right? They don’t put fucking sane people in asylums.
“Pliers?” I ask, and he instantly replies, “Teeth.”
I grin as I hold up my favorite item. One I own, but they took from me when I got arrested.
“It cuts skin more easily than a knife.”
His breathing gets heavy, probably from not only my weight on his chest, but the anxiety of wondering what comes next. Spoiler alert. Nothing fucking good. Well, not for him anyway.
I feel the cool metal from the scalpel in my palm, and the sensation soothes me. It’s comforting. A scalpel has long been my weapon of choice. It’s how I right wrongs, and having it will mean I’ll never be restrained again. I place it back in the case, knowing it’ll be back in my grip shortly.
Am I insane? I have no clue, but something definitely isn’t right in this brain of mine.
There are three things I cannot handle. Small spaces, being confined, and the dark.
If I were a betting man, I’d wager that this fuckface is responsible for the confinement. For that, he’s going to pay the price.
I lift off him, grab a hand, and zip tie it to the metal bed, before doing the same with his other wrist. Once I start, it’s entirely possible this cheap bed will break, because he’s going to try to get free. I move to the floor, and attach his ankles to the railings at the foot of the bed.
“I’m really glad you have beds like this, Doc. It makes things so much easier. I should send a thank you note to the administration.”
“Insane,” he mutters, and I turn to him.
“Excuse me?”
He pulls on the ties, but luckily stays where he is.
“You’re insane.”
I shrug my shoulders with a laugh.
“Well, we are in an insane asylum.”
Getting back onto the bed, I straddle his chest again, and trap his head between my thighs.
“Do you know why I do this, Doc?”
Shaking his head furiously, tears stream down his face, as he pleads for this to not happen.
“Don’t. Raven, we can get you better treatment, put you on a lower floor. Whatever you want.”
Slapping him on the face, I reach back for the case and grab the scalpel.
“We are past the negotiation stage, Doc. I don’t like being tied up. There was no reason for it. I didn’t struggle, and there wasn’t a single threat of violence, yet you drugged me and restrained me. You will serve as a lesson to the rest of the staff here.”
I take the scalpel, rest it against his hairline, not pressing it into his skin yet, and I smile.
“It’s too bad I don’t have my phone. I could play music for you. Do you know that song, ‘The First Cut is the Deepest’?”
He crinkles his nose, but is careful not to move his head, since the scalpel is touching his skin.
“That’s a love song, you idiot.”
I chuckle and say, “I just like the one line. It’s fitting.”
Whistling the tune of the song, I push the scalpel into his skin, and slowly I cut along his hairline, while gripping his head.
I do prefer when I can have their head in a vise, but this will have to do.
Doc screams as I pull his skin down, and wedge the scalpel underneath.
I could have gagged him, but I didn’t want to.
I want people to come running in here, and find him like this.
I want them to see what’s being done to the fucker that decided he’d try me.
If I have to, I will kill every person in this building.
Guaranteed, no one will ever restrain me, lock my fucking door, or turn off my lights again.
Any animal pushed into a corner would fight back.
This didn’t have to happen. He chose this.
My father taught me, when I was young, that showing weakness makes you a liability. Once you issue a threat, never back down. It’s the reason why, if I say I’ll do something, I do it. I may have been the bastard child, never recognized, but my DNA runs deep. I am my father’s son.