1. Ripley
CHAPTER 1
RIPLEY
PUNCHING BAG – SET IT OFF
Ten Years Earlier
Bipolar disorder is a fucking bitch.
Shit, sorry. I meant that to come out better. More hopeful, maybe? But you don’t need me to do that. There are plenty of others who write articles for mental health blogs and wear their stability as a badge of honour.
Fuck. Okay, too dark.
Let me start again. My brain has zero filter before a minimum of three macchiatos, and I haven’t had caffeine since the day I was taken into custody. Like a simple fucking coffee is going to make us any crazier? I’ve never heard such crap.
Anyway, I’ll amend my statement since we’re just talking between friends here. You can handle God’s honest truth, right?
Bipolar disorder is a motherfucking cunt.
Better?
Awesome.
Don’t get me wrong... The highs are high. Feverishly so. In those bright, otherworldly periods, you become a deity-like figure of supreme power and excellence. A god with all the power and almighty importance such a role would entail.
Those are the good times that doctors don’t like to advertise. When they talk about bipolar, they make it sound bad to be so high, you believe that your eyeballs are two giant marshmallows in your head, just waiting to be melted over a campfire.
But the lows?
They’re the real kicker.
I once read that when technical divers go deep into the ocean, they have to take several decompression stops on the way back up to prevent themselves from being paralysed by the pressure that’s built within their body. That’s what the lows feel like to me.
Total paralysis.
The weight of the whole world is pressing down on you—crushing, splintering, overtaking every breath until it feels like you’re attempting to breathe fire rather than air. When that pressure builds, it’s impossible to avoid the depressive stasis that follows.
I was always an odd child. The lonely orphan, rattling around her absent uncle’s cold, impersonal four-story townhouse. I’ve been on antipsychotics and mood stabilisers ever since the housekeeper found me having a midnight birthday party for my friends on the balcony.
The overpaid London doctors said I was hallucinating my fourteen-year-old ass off and too manic to realise that my so-called friends weren’t even real. My horrified uncle, Jonathan, swept me off to an expensive psychiatrist who slapped a nice, neat label on my forehead.
That was it.
Bipolar.
End of story.
From that day forward, a handful of brightly coloured pills converted me into a semi-functional human being who graduated from art school at twenty-one and established her own life. And it worked for several years, until I relapsed and had an episode so bad, I landed myself in here.
After thinking that Martians were attempting to take me away, and if I left my two-bedroom flat in Hackney, I’d break an air lock that surrounded my apartment, Uncle Jonathan signed off on a generous donation to ensure I’d be dealt with quietly.
He easily handed me over to avoid any damage to his public image. Being a prolific financier and investor in the city might have afforded him a luxurious lifestyle that I benefited from growing up, but it didn’t allow for a batshit crazy niece, assaulting the pizza delivery guy while manic.
Leaning against an oak tree located off the green quad at the centre of Harrowdean Manor, I await the gaggle of patients making their way towards me. Right on time, as per usual. Everyone knows what day it is. I run a tight ship and never stray from the schedule.
Wednesday afternoon is our designated time slot for contraband collection. Santa Claus is here with gifts, and someone is about to get shit-rich on their self-destructive tendencies. Being the self-proclaimed queen of Harrowdean has its benefits, but I’m just an intermediary. My payment for the illegal crap I peddle comes in other forms.
“Hi, Ripley.” Santos reaches me first, his bleary eyes downturned. “My usual, please.”
Reaching into my sock, I pull the small plastic wrapper of cocaine from its hiding place. He checks in for more every day or two, and as long as my contraband lines hold steady, I regularly fulfil his order.
“Usual price.”
“Uh, well…” He avoids eye contact, shuffling his worn shoes.
“Come on, man. Don’t give me that.”
“My girlfriend’s behind on rent,” he rushes to explain. “She’s gonna smuggle the cash in at tomorrow afternoon’s visitation after she gets paid. Can I settle up then?”
“Tomorrow?” I raise an eyebrow.
His washed-out eyes finally meet mine, brimming with panic. “Please, Ripley.”
“You know the deal.”
“It’s just one day?—”
“No payment, no coke.”
“No!” he begs again, dragging his palms down his face. “I need to re-up.”
“I’m not a charity. Pay up or fuck off.”
Hands trembling, he seizes a handful of my oversized anime t-shirt. “All I’m asking for is twenty-four hours.”
Unbothered, I inspect my cuticles. “Not going to happen.”
“What is wrong with you, bitch?”
Now he’s pissing me off.
Sliding a hand into the waistband of my worn grey sweats, I grasp the metal switchblade I keep stashed at all times for my own protection. Santos’s eyes widen as I draw the weapon free and flick out the blade, gesturing with a wave. He quickly releases my shirt.
“Back off or I’ll happily paint the ground with your innards and let the guards find your body. They’ll take great pleasure in covering it up to avoid filing the damn paperwork.”
Cursing under his breath, he raises his hands in surrender, taking several large steps backwards. My blade remains drawn until he slinks away, muttering his displeasure.
I squash the faintest crack of pity trying to grow roots in my heart. Nothing is free in this world. Not even illegal contraband passed between patients like we’re fucking prisoners trapped on death row.
My regulars slowly appear over the course of the next hour. Requests vary, week by week. Harrowdean is small enough for me to know all the other patients by name with a maximum occupancy of just sixty people spread across two floors of private bedrooms.
Rae requests blades. Always. She cuts herself until the razors turn blunt then barters for whatever cash she can scrounge in here to buy herself more. Usually by sucking dicks.
We’re on friendly terms, but I keep her at arm’s length after what happened before I came here. I learned that lesson the day the last person I cared about met a grisly end. Finding my best friend swinging from the ceiling was the worst day of my life.
I’ve been haunted ever since.
For most patients, it’s drugs. Cigarettes. Alcohol. Sometimes weird shit, like the time our resident nympho, Tania, paid me in stolen jewellery for a nine-inch pink dildo complete with ribbed veins. Like I said, weird shit. That isn’t even the half of it.
Taking a pack of cigarettes from me, Rick hands over a crumpled ten-pound note while unashamedly checking me out. He’s a douchebag, through and through. I hate his guts, but he’s a good customer. I’ll tolerate his sleaziness for the repeat business his nicotine addiction provides.
“Eyes up, pal.”
“You’re looking good, Ripley. Nice t-shirt.”
Eyes narrowed, I don’t take the bait. Unlike some who attempt to escape the reality of being locked in here by dressing fancy as fuck, I’m rarely caught out of my favourite well-washed t-shirts or paint-splattered sweats. I’m not here to impress anyone.
“You hear about Priory Lane?” he asks conversationally.
A deathly chill races down my spine. “What about it?”
Rick tucks the cigarettes into his jeans pocket. “It’s under official investigation. Everyone’s being relocated until the heat dies down.”
The mention of a place I’d love to forget is enough to sour my stomach. I spent twelve months in Priory Lane before being transferred here to live out the rest of my three-year psychiatric sentence. Not even leaving that hellhole scrubbed away the memory of finding Holly’s corpse there.
“Priory Lane will be open again by the end of the week.” I huff in derision. “These investigations never last.”
“You’re not interested in what the authorities may find?”
Suppressing a laugh, I can’t help but find his optimism entertaining. We all know these institutes are corrupt as hell and more about profit than the treatment of the unwell.
But they’ll never find any dirt in Priory Lane. Hush money shuffled in all the right places will see to that. The truth about our dire circumstances is more known here at Harrowdean, but if anything, the situation is bleaker. No one ever comes here or asks questions.
“I couldn’t give a shit.” Irritation leaks into my tone.
He lowers his voice. “Scared?”
“Fuck off, Rick.”
Feet spread, he eyes me with amusement. I hate the way his tongue skates over his teeth as if he’s deep in thought, contemplating how best to get in my head. The dickhead loves to play mind games.
“If these places go under, your little reign of terror comes to an end. You don’t mean shit out there in the real world. We all know you’re just the warden’s bitch.”
“Feel free to source your ciggies elsewhere if you have a problem with me.”
He straightens, a nasty sneer painted across his lips. “Like where? You own us all.”
Damn straight, I do. Everyone in this place belongs to me. Even the ones who don’t buy contraband fear the power I have.
“You know, I hope when the police do come knocking to tear this hellhole down, you’re the first one they throw under the bus for enabling it all.”
“You chose to come here. I heard about what you did.” I scan him up and down in disgust. “Did it feel good? Beating that guy to death?”
“Like you’re so innocent, psycho.”
Humiliation curdles in my gut. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Not for a lack of trying, though. I’ve heard the gossip. Besides, I’d rather be locked inside a real prison than this twisted shit show.”
“You took the deal,” I point out.
“If I could go back, I’d never agree to come here. None of us would.”
I’m sure Rick and so many of his criminal pals spew the same shit. It makes them feel better, like they can forget they signed up for Harrowdean’s glittering rehabilitation program. Duped like the rest of us.
“You committed a crime. It’s not my fault you’re doing the time.”
“People come here to be helped,” he argues, two red splotches forming on his cheeks. “This is supposed to be a treatment program. We all know that’s a sham, though. Soon, the world will too.”
Cruel laughter bubbles out of me. Now he’s really starting to piss me off. I’m not above kicking his ass in front of everyone to teach him a lesson about respect.
“Whatever, man.” I dismiss him with a wave. “Get out of my face.”
“Watch your back, Ripley. I wouldn’t want a knife to slip into it.”
With a wink, he disappears to smoke and join his friends. I school a perfectly blank expression into place. No one can know the effect his words really have on me. I hate to admit it, but Rick’s right.
I’ve spent the last year building a reputation for myself. Doling out contraband and inflicting a beating where necessary has earned me this hard-ass image. But I can lose it just as quickly. Perhaps it’s time I taught these sheep a lesson to remind them who’s in charge.
My eyes connect with Noah’s pale brown orbs from across the lawn. He’s slumped over at his usual picnic bench, mouthing the words half an hour with a raised brow.
I shoot him a thumb’s up, anticipation already rolling down my spine. This new friends with benefits arrangement is working nicely. What? A girl’s gotta eat. Especially when the excess energy grows too unbearable, inching its way into mania-territory.
Noah is a gangly, fellow manic depressive who got transferred here less than a month ago. He’s tolerable for now. The others all want to fuck me too, I’m not denying that. But only to score themselves some free gear.
Noah’s different. Lengthy periods of depression will do that to you. He’s far too numb to mastermind an elaborate scheme to win me over to score himself a free spliff or whatever shit he’s into.
I like that about him. The brokenness hidden behind his sad eyes and slumped shoulders is its own safety net. He’s incapable of feeling anything too deeply. Therefore, he can’t get attached. This arrangement is only temporary.
By the time I’ve offloaded this week’s deliveries with no further incident, it’s almost time for my dick appointment. I cast Elon—my least favourite grunt and assigned guard—a nod as I pass him on the way to my room on the fifth floor.
“Any problems?” he queries.
There’s no sense lying to him. His gunmetal eyes catch everything. He’s stocky and well-built, his closely cropped hair accentuating the harshness of his features. The man is as ugly and rough around the edges as they come.
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“What does that mean?” His voice is a lazy drawl.
“It’s been taken care of.”
“You’re supposed to keep them under control, inmate. Fail to do that and alternative arrangements can be made.”
“That won’t be necessary.” I swallow the trepidation bubbling in my throat.
“For your sake, I hope not.”
Grinning creepily, he gestures for me to continue up the winding, mahogany staircase that services the east wing. The beady, painted eyes of countless original paintings follow me, denoting various long-dead old bastards in white wigs and frilly suits.
Harrowdean Manor is the smallest of six privately-owned institutes spread across the United Kingdom. Nestled in the quiet, inconspicuous countryside of the rural midlands, it’s a sprawling, Victoria-era manor house straight off the pages of history books that tell the tale of long-gone asylums.
Only, this one isn’t long gone.
Far from it.
Hidden in a secretive forest of juniper and willow trees, Harrowdean is a gothic monster split across four huge wings—dorms, classes, therapy rooms and utilities like the cafeteria and library. It’s a whole world locked behind dramatic stained glass, tall archways and crisscrossed bay windows.
Decades ago, it was converted into a home for the mentally unstable, including those deemed too fucked for prison.
Most people end up here one of two ways. Some are criminals, offered a shiny lifeline that enables them to escape jail time by agreeing to a three-year sentence in the experimental program.
But the rest of us? We’re genuinely insane.
And I’m talking fucking clinical.
I didn’t joyride in a celebrity’s limo or burn a handsy relative alive. Yes, both true stories I’ve heard. I wish my story was that interesting. Instead, my manic ramblings were silenced, and I was shipped off to avoid causing my uncle more bad press.
Harrowdean wasn’t even my first stop on the crazy train. Sedated and restrained, I was taken to the bigger, northern branch first—the infamous, and apparently under threat, Priory Lane. Fuck, how I’d love to see that slice of hell burn along with everyone in it.
Passing other patients in the carpet-lined halls, most avert their eyes. They all know I’m top dog. If you want anything illegal in here, I’m the girl to speak to. And that role grants me the respect, and more importantly, the fear, that I relish in without shame.
“Rip!”
Sighing, I halt outside my bedroom door, Room Seventeen . Rae is several doors down on the same floor. Dark-brown, almost black eyes lined with thick kohl, she flashes me a toothy smile from beneath her voluminous auburn curls.
“You know my name,” I drone back, gripping the door handle. “At least bother to finish it.”
With an eye roll, she lays her deep, raspy voice on thick. “Ripley. Satisfied?”
“Overjoyed.” I begrudgingly release the knob and turn to face her. “What do you want?”
“I’m out. The last pack you gave me were dull.”
“It’s not like I can just nip down to the drug store and find the good, sharp razor blades for you to slice yourself up with. I’m beholden to others too.”
“Yeah, whatever. I want the good ones.”
Darkness creeps in. It blooms in the pits of my mind, metastasising with the weight of my guilt. I prefer the days when I’m too fucking high—or even better, too fucking depressed—to give a shit what she does with those razors.
But those in-between periods of lucidity as I wait for the bipolar roller coaster to regain speed are the most destructive. The days when I have to contend with the consequences of my decisions. At least when I’m off my head on imbalanced dopamine, I don’t care who gets hurt.
Semi-sane Ripley cares.
Way too much.
“Ripley?” she whines. “You with me?”
Licking my lips, I force moisture into my mouth. “Fine, I’ll figure it out. Now fuck off, Rae.”
She grins back. “Love you too, doll face.”
“Uh-huh.”
Flipping her off, I quickly scan the keycard that unlocks my bedroom door and escape into the cool comfort. Early January daylight barely penetrates the darkness inside.
I keep the curtains drawn over the barred window. The dark drapes rest on an anti-ligature rack, held up by magnets. I keep minimal personal effects around, but the folding photo frame depicting the last family trip with my parents rests at my bedside.
Safely hidden, my eyes burn, but I refuse to release the moisture swelling inside. Looking at that photograph, I can still remember when the social worker sat me down and told me my mum wasn’t coming home.
It was a hit and run. Dead on collision. I didn’t discover those details until years later when I was old enough to pry into her death. Dad had passed a little over a year earlier from heart failure. Faster than blinking, I became an orphan.
Don’t think, don’t feel.
That’s how to survive, Ripley.
I’ve lived by those words since my childhood. But part of me wonders how liberating it would be to let all the pain and grief I’ve been quelling since I stared at that social worker overwhelm me.
If I was consumed by that wave, perhaps I wouldn’t float back to the surface again. Perhaps I’d finally be free of Holly’s ghost still haunting me. I may rule this kingdom, but I built it for her.
Finding her dead ruined me.
They ruined me.