3. Ripley
CHAPTER 3
RIPLEY
DEAD OR ALIVE – STILETO I feel like I’ve inadvertently stepped into a minefield between two enemy lines.
“Hell no,” Holly mutters curtly. “If you know what’s good for you, kid, you’ll stay the fuck away from those two.”
Jerking upright, a cold sweat clings to my skin. I’m shaking so hard, it feels like my body is vibrating. The memory rests at the forefront of my mind after clawing its way out of my mental lockbox while I fitfully slept.
My nightmares are usually reserved for high-definition retellings of my parents’ deaths. Not so much Dad’s heart attack. My mind prefers to imagine how Mum’s car crash unfolded while I was safely at home with a babysitter as she travelled back from a girls’ night.
But not tonight.
Instead, Holly is haunting me.
I can feel salty droplets clinging to my body in the darkness of my bedroom. Scrubbing my face, I drag in a breath. She isn’t here. I’m alone in my room at Harrowdean, far from the clinging horrors of last year.
Being turned over to the care of Priory Lane was the most terrifying moment I’ve ever experienced. Far scarier than losing my family, being confronted by my own delusions or even the resignation in my uncle’s eyes as I shared my diagnosis.
It was the moment I lost all control.
My life no longer belonged to me.
The moment I stepped out of Uncle Jonathan’s town car and into the northern chill, I knew my life was over. Three-year rehabilitative program or not. There was no coming back from being practically disowned by your only remaining family and forcibly confined to a psych ward.
Shoving back the bedsheets, I try to sit up but waver. My limbs are heavy and feel like they’re wrapped in cotton wool. Numbing paralysis pumps through my veins, cutting off feeling to my extremities.
Depression is a silent but deadly weight that I know all too well. It’s been a few weeks since my last down episode, but I recognise my own warning signs. The ups and downs are a regular part of my life now.
While others may feel the darkness creeping into their minds, the first thing to go is my ability to move like a normal human being. It’s the technical diving effect playing out in real time.
Just get up, Ripley.
Fucking move.
You’re in control of your own body.
But the awful truth is… I’m not. I haven’t been for a long time. My brain doesn’t belong to me; it belongs to my illness. That cruel bitch calls all the shots around here. I’m just along for the ride. Powerless to the rising tide approaching to decimate my self-control all over again.
“Come on,” I whisper weakly. “Please, just move.”
By the time I’ve worked up the will to move my leaden limbs, the sun is almost threatening to rise. I struggle to remain upright as I stumble through scattered art supplies to the attached ensuite, hands outstretched to stop myself from falling.
The plastic surface of the mirror above the sink distorts my reflection as I wait for the shower to heat up. I’ve always kept my hair short. More often than not, half the tight curls are shoved up in a sloppy knot and secured with a paintbrush, leaving stray, tawny-brown ringlets to tickle my jawline.
My wide, round, hazel eyes are more green than brown, framed by thick lashes that cast shadows across my lightly freckled cheeks and slightly upturned button nose. I straighten my silver septum ring with a sigh then step into the shower.
It takes scrubbing my ink-swirled skin to within an inch of its life with my favourite papaya body wash to remove the remnants of my nightmare. Holly sometimes infiltrates my dreams, but those two demons haven’t shown their faces for a while.
Teeth gritted, I scrub hard enough to leave dark purple lines from my nails. Bastards. Bastards. Bastards. My mental chant accompanies my scrubbing, on and on, until I’m bright-red and aching from my own bodily assault. But at least I can feel my limbs again.
Making myself step out of the spray, I wince at the sting of cool air against my abused skin. I’m not like Rae. Pain isn’t my thing. But hating every inch of myself sure as hell is, and a violent shower helps tame the thoughts of self-loathing long enough to reconstruct my mask each day.
I’ve convinced myself that if one day I scrub hard enough, I’ll be able to rip the very skin from my bones and tear free from this carcass holding me prisoner. If I leave this body behind, perhaps I can leave my sins with it.
Until then, I must live with the monstrous person I’ve become. Some days that’s easier than others. I can slip into a human skin suit and play the role I’ve been given. But other times, it’s excruciating.
After drying off, I grab my discarded grey sweatpants from the floor and throw on a loose, acid-wash t-shirt. With each breath, I piece my careful fa?ade back together. Another section of my armour is replaced, layer by layer, until the vulnerable version of Ripley is safely hidden.
The world can never know she exists.
Weakness would be my downfall.
By the time I grab my keycard and throw on a hoodie, my familiar, hard-faced scowl is safely back in place. I’ve got a date with a to-go breakfast and the unfinished canvas sitting in Harrowdean’s studio. Aside from the weekly art therapy sessions, I usually get the place to myself.
It’s early enough for only the non-sedated patients to be braving the cafeteria. The usual breakfast rush doesn’t hit until at least nine o’clock when the previous night’s court-sanctioned sedation inevitably wears off for everyone else.
Down the winding staircase that descends from the fifth floor of the east wing, the lavish decor and glimmering chandeliers fail to impress me. That’s how they suck you in—a luxurious, well-polished exterior, crafted to conceal the truth.
That doesn’t stop the private sponsors from lavishing the institute with donations so they can proudly pronounce themselves as mental health advocates. It’s all shallow. Performative. No one actually cares if we’re rehabilitated or not, as long as we’re safely out of sight, and therefore, out of mind.
“Langley,” I greet stiffly.
One foot propped behind him, the usual morning guard spares me a glance. He’s tall and well-built, his tanned biceps straining against the soft material of his black shirt.
He’s always been friendly to me. Sometimes suspiciously so. He’s cute in a boyish way with his dark hair and fuzz-covered jawline.
“Morning, Rip. You’re up early.”
“Got a project calling my name in the studio.”
Bright-blue eyes scanning over me, he frowns slightly. “Anyone causing ya trouble?”
“Nothing I can’t handle on my own.”
When his aquamarine eyes soften, I cast a cursory look around, ensuring no one is watching. I like Langley. Unlike some of the warden’s well-paid thugs, he has a heart. Shame I can’t afford to have any form of attachment in this place.
But in here, I don’t get to have friends. Connections. Weaknesses . There’s a reason why I keep everyone at arm’s length. I’m here to do one thing. Survive. And I’ll take myself out long before I let anyone break me again.
“Anyone gives you shit, I want to know about it.” He moves to rest a hand on the baton strapped to his hip. “Contrary to what you may think, you’re not alone in here.”
“I’ve been alone for a long time,” I say matter-of-factly. “It has nothing to do with this damn place. Do me a favour and mind your fucking business.”
Waiting for the hurt to fill his eyes, I stare for a second longer before walking away. The sooner he stops seeing me as some tragic experiment that’s somehow his to protect—from his employer no less—the better.
The cafeteria is located on the ground floor of the west wing. Traipsing down plush corridors adorned with more priceless artwork, I force my exhausted body to obey. Food. Paint. Forget. That’s how I’ll get through today.
With freshly waxed hardwood floors, cream walls and several long, rectangular tables to house the small patient population, it’s practically empty at this hour.
Food awaits on the service line in the uppermost corner. I bypass the hot option and grab some fruit to take away. As I’m grabbing a juice box in lieu of the macchiato I’d rather be drinking, something hard shoves into my shoulder.
I trip and stumble, catching myself on the service line before I faceplant on the floor. Rick offers me an innocent smirk before he turns away with his breakfast tray in hand.
“Sorry, didn’t see you there,” he coos over his shoulder.
“Seriously?”
“What’s up, Rip? No guard dog to kiss your ass today?”
Placing my food down, I snatch the back of his loose blue shirt and yank. He’s dragged to a halt long enough for me to slip a foot around his ankle and shove his shoulder, causing him to go flying.
Food splatters across the floor as he lands unceremoniously on his ass. Rick bellows in shock and pain. I stare down at him pathetically rolling around.
“Sorry,” I snap angrily. “Didn’t see you there either.”
“Motherfucker!” he screeches.
“You seem to have egg on your shirt.”
Swiping spilt milk from his face, Rick eyes me furiously. “You have a fucking death wish or what?”
“I was perfectly happy minding my own business until you showed up.” I tilt my head to stare down at him. “You’re cut off. I don’t sell to assholes. Spread the word.”
Before he can respond, I grab my apple and saunter away with a wink delivered to an open-mouthed Langley, watching everything unfold from his post. He shakes his head at me, lips quirked up as he fights his amusement. What? I told him I could handle myself. Maybe next time, he’ll believe me.
The art studio is located in the deserted south wing, at the end of another seemingly endless corridor surrounded by locked classrooms. I swipe my keycard to let myself into the large, shaded space.
Flicking the lights on, the comforting surroundings of my happy place are revealed. No one touches my canvases or supplies—not even Lena, the resident hippy art therapist—so I have a whole corner all to myself.
Everyone knows better than to fuck with my artwork. Like Rick said, being the warden’s bitch has its perks. It only cost my soul.
Pulling out my oil paints, I begin to set up. My paintbrushes are clean and waiting for me. The only exception to people touching my shit is when I use my leverage to get someone to clean up after me. Again, perks .
The canvas I’m working on is a disturbing sight. Violent sprays of black, dark-green and crimson form the bleak landscape I’m crafting. It’s a horrifying scene, and in the eye of the storm, a single shadowy figure stands.
She’s alone. Trapped. Powerless to escape the endless tragedy all around her. My hand flicks, bends and swoops, splattering paint in an unrestrained torrent of previously suppressed rage.
All the emotions I spent my shower time shoving down come rushing back to the surface. I’m not sure where the two additional shadow figures come from in the background, but my hand soon creates them.
Throat parched and stomach rumbling, I barely stop to shove an apple into my mouth. Once I slip into that trance-like state of deep focus, it’s impossible to come back to reality. Not until the painting is done and I’ve spilled my guts onto the canvas.
The lights in the art studio seem to grow brighter, and I distractedly register the sun setting through the room’s bay windows. Not even the promise of dinner is enough to release me from my frenzy. It’s pitch-black outside by the time I add the final flick of paint and deflate.
Jesus.
Fucking.
Christ.
It takes a lot to scare me after all I’ve seen, but even I can admit that what I’ve created is downright terrifying. It looks like a scene from Dante’s inferno. The final layer of saturated flames on top of the greyscale shadows completes the hellish landscape.
Bleak.
Apocalyptic.
Beautiful.
Studying my work, I realise that I’ve been gently swaying to the rhythm of haunting violin music this entire time. Glancing around trying to gauge the source, it sounds distant, leaking through the partially open door leading to the corridor.
My stiff body protests as I move close to the doorway, following the melody. As it’s a Sunday, there are no classes taking place. This wing should be deserted. But a few doors down, I can see that one of the classrooms is unlocked, the door slightly ajar.
I’ve only been into the music room once. A long since discharged patient bent me over the piano and fucked me senseless during one of my hypersexual manic episodes. He was a good lay.
Curiosity drives me to walk towards the classroom. Peeking around the door, I find the room in almost darkness. The only light is from the moon, a waxing crescent spilling through the arched window and illuminating a single figure sat alone in the shadows.
The violinist.
It’s… a guy.
With an exquisite instrument tucked beneath his chin, he stares straight ahead into nothingness while playing with masterful control. I have no idea how he can see what he’s playing with such dim lighting, but the notes spilling from his fingertips are pure perfection.
I can’t make out much beyond the golden sheen of his hair that’s illuminated by the moonlight, the strands long on top and roughly shoved back from his lowered face. He’s slim but built, his limbs poised to strum the next note. I’m certain that he’s new—I don’t recognise him and Harrowdean is small enough for me to know everyone.
When the newbie hits a bad note and softly curses, I study his nimble fingers, realising his hands are shaking. It’s a familiar tremble. I’ve seen it enough in my customers when they can’t afford to re-up for a few days and go through withdrawals.
Is that why his music is so hauntingly sad?
Am I hearing the ache to shoot himself full of poison?
Hands freezing on the instrument, he tilts his head ever so slightly. It’s a subtle cocking motion, like he’s listening for the patter of approaching prey, inching closer to his hunting trap.
My heart is beating so loud, I can hear it roaring in my ears. When he speaks, his rough voice slices into my skin like razor blades. There’s a delicious raspiness to his intonation.
“Hear something you like?”
Inhaling sharply, I look around like a complete idiot, convinced he’s talking to someone else. How the hell does he know I’m listening? I’ve barely poked my head around the door.
Before I can offer a smart remark, my throat closes up. I don’t know if it’s the deep, gut-wrenching pain entangled in his music or the raw tenor of his voice, but any clever response I had dries up in my mouth.
“Well?” the violinist prompts.
He still hasn’t lifted his head. Not even a glance in my direction. Hands scrunched, my nails dig into my palms. I want to yell at him for breaking my peace when I banked on this wing being empty. Yet not a single syllable spills from my tongue.
“If you’re here to gawp, feel free to fuck off.” His voice is resigned as he resumes playing the violin. “Your breathing is ruining my concentration.”
My… breathing?
“Sorry,” I mutter.
Disturbed by this strange creature, I turn on my heel and race away without a second glance. The sound of his crooning instrument hitting every last chord with finesse follows my retreating footsteps.
I return to my canvas to finish up, the sound of his music continuing. Lilting. Anguished. Hitting every note with well-timed perfection. If I wanted to, I could get a guard to heave him away for distracting me.
But I don’t.
Instead, I find myself swaying again.
Although we are both lost in our own worlds, we’re only metres apart, separated by the thin walls between us. The evocative violin music continues late into the night, long after I’ve tidied up, stacked the canvas and run out of unnecessary jobs to do.
I mentally scold myself and leave the art studio. As I pass the music room, the door left ajar, I catch another glimpse. The violinist has paused briefly, his instrument in his lap. I watch him lift the back of his hand to his nose.
He snorts up whatever is there, a relieved sigh slipping out of him. His bowed shoulders seem to perk up, and when he returns to his violin, the melody has lightened to a more joyful rhythm. I quickly turn and walk away.
Survival is a personal thing.
Sometimes, it looks a whole lot like self-destruction.