14. Xander
CHAPTER 14
XANDER
N/A – brING ME THE HORIZON
Bright, clinical lights sear my eyeballs. The screech of incessant white noise rages on, hour after hour, never once offering a reprieve. The pain in my skull has dulled to a low ache. I wonder, distantly, if my brain has finally liquified.
Cold water submersion didn’t work. Beatings didn’t work. Psychological torture didn’t work. Isolation didn’t work. Now the clinicians have resorted to over-stimulation on all fronts. It’s impossible to rest with the ceaseless light and sound in the cell.
They want us to break.
Bend.
Reform.
It’s rare that I see Lennox now. At first, we were held side by side. As if seeing the other in pain would somehow ignite the process. When that failed, they soon split us apart, each assigned to our own personal cell in the Z wing.
I’ve seen others. Ghosts. Skeletal and pale-skinned, their eyes stripped of all human awareness. That’s the whole point. They don’t want traumatised patients; they want mindless machines. The Z wing’s true purpose is to create exactly that.
Vessels for the rich. Malleable and capable of inflicting whatever force is required to further their buyer’s aims. Murder. Extortion. Torture. Anything deemed too dirty for the spotless hands of the powerful one percent.
But power isn’t free.
Not in this world.
After months of wondering why the corporation that owns six private institutes across the country would risk everything by engaging in such horrific abuse, I understand. These aren’t treatment facilities. That’s just a cover story.
They’re factories.
Manufacturers of machines.
We were always bought and paid for. The moment we signed ourselves over to the rehabilitative program, accepting a three-year sentence to avoid something worse, our souls were marked for exploitation.
Not everyone is admitted to the Z wing. Hell, most patients don’t know it exists. Evil always lurks in the periphery. Formless and invisible until the secrets finally break open and the truth comes spilling out.
Will we live long enough to see that day?
I took this sentence with the same nonchalance I had while embezzling disgusting sums of money from the rich and stupid all from behind a computer screen. Child’s play. I didn’t even want their cash.
I just wanted to make them hurt for the entertainment value.
Own their cash, and I owned them.
The lawyers thought they were doing me a favour when they rolled out my so-called ‘traumatic childhood’ and personality disorder diagnosis to argue against decades of jail time. They offered up Priory Lane like some goddamn wonderland.
When the screeching white noise abruptly shuts off, it takes several moments for it to even register. My ears are ringing so violently. I don’t bother shifting from my curled-up ball on the cold floor. They can drag me to whatever they have planned next for all I care.
The cell door swings open, emitting my favourite sadist, Doctor Farnsworth. He’s an old, ugly son of a bitch. Only this time, he isn’t alone. I don’t recognise the other elderly, silver-haired man practically dripping with wealth and self-importance.
“This is one of our troublemakers.” Doctor Farnsworth gestures towards me like I’m a plant that refuses to grow. “No progress despite following our usual methods.”
The second old bastard casts a critical eye over me. “We haven’t had one this stubborn since Patient Seven in Blackwood. He was a tough nut to crack.”
“Unfortunately, sir, there are no signs of cracking here. I believe this subject has an extreme tolerance to our physical and psychological methods. His history is already extensive.”
If I could move a muscle, I’d laugh. These assholes don’t scare me. They haven’t quite clocked the extent of my indifference yet. Their pain is no motivator. I cherish it. Lavish in it. The agony is a warm, soft blanket that will never compare to the horrors I’ve already survived.
Pain is my fascination. Other people’s suffering. Fuck, even my own. For years, I carved pieces off myself, layering scar upon scar to see how much blood it would take for me to break. When that failed, my attention shifted to the agony of others instead.
“Cease all activities with this one.”
“But, Sir Bancroft ? —”
“We’ve wasted enough resources.” Old Bastard looks thoughtful, his wrinkled mouth pulled taut.
“Should we dispose of him?” Doctor Farnsworth asks.
“That would be wasteful. I can think of far better uses for such promising resilience. It is rare these days. Your last stooge met an unfortunate end, isn’t that so?”
“Yes, sir. This one and his friend saw to it.”
“Then allow them to clean up the mess they made. Make him your stooge along with the other one.” Bancroft approaches then crouches down to address me. “Do you want out of this cell, son?”
I summon the energy to barely nod.
“You know the price for defying us now. Your freedom isn’t free.”
With a final lingering look, he straightens.
“You work for Incendia Corporation now.”
I don’t wake up screaming like most who suffer with night terrors. It’s more like lucid dreaming. I’m often aware that the hell I’m trapped in isn’t real, but that doesn’t make the memories any less horrifying.
Sitting upright in the twin bed, soaked covers pool around my waist, letting cold air lash against my bare, sweat-slick chest. A shiver threatens to wrack over me as I cool down. Lennox is snoring his head off in the adjacent bed—unperturbed, as usual.
We had the luxury of separate rooms in Priory Lane. Being in close quarters isn’t my favourite thing. I like silence. Invisibility. Some of my best work is done in the shadows, far from the distraction of those with more morals.
Your freedom isn’t free.
I didn’t give a fuck what price I had to pay. I would’ve done the damn job for free. Bargaining our release from the Z wing was a mere bonus.
Rising from the bed, my steps are light and barely audible. Lennox doesn’t stir as I shut myself in the small, attached bathroom and set the shower to cold. Funny how the mind craves what once traumatised it.
Ice-cold water sluices over my body. Goosebumps dapple across scar-striped skin. Most of the marks are white and shiny, softened by time. It’s been several years since I took a blade to my own skin.
The thin stripes of raised tissue cover both arms up to my biceps. When I ran out of room, I moved to my stomach, then thighs. Once every inch had been tested, I grew tired of my own pain and looked elsewhere.
Then the real fun began.
By the time I’ve imprisoned the dreams back in their mental confines, Lennox is sitting upright in bed. I tuck a towel around my hips and comb a hand through my wet, snow-white hair.
“Another dream?” he asks.
I hum noncommittally.
“What was it this time?”
Ignoring him, I rifle through the cupboard tucked into the corner of the room that houses my selection of polo shirts and jeans.
“Xan. Don’t shut me out.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“Has it been like this every night since we got out?” Lennox presses despite my clipped tone. “If I had known?—”
“What, Nox?” I whirl to face him. “What could you have possibly done?”
Lennox dealt with what we went through differently. His survival was out of sheer stubborn will and rage. Nothing can break a man who has already lost his whole world. He quickly bounced back once we were released.
He sighs, though it lacks his usual anger. “I should’ve burned that goddamn place to the ground when I had the chance.”
“That’s your solution to everything,” I point out.
“Do you have to be such an asshole?”
Admittedly, that was a low blow. Lennox’s history is a matter of public record. First-degree murder has a way of making the news, especially the cases involving petrol and a well-aimed match.
It’s what impressed me so much in the first place. His vengeance wasn’t quiet or dignified. He didn’t even care that he got caught. All Lennox wanted was to snuff out the life that killed his sister.
“Whatever.” He lays back down then angrily stuffs his pillow. “Go skulk around somewhere and leave me alone.”
Quickly getting dressed, I don’t spare him another look, let alone an apology. He should know better than to expect that from me. Grabbing my ID, I slip out of the bedroom and head downstairs.
It’s early enough to beat the morning rush. We’ve been taking mathematics classes together, much like we did during our last incarceration. Numbers were an easy choice for me. Simple and mind-numbing, allowing me to continue plotting in the background.
When I met Lennox, he didn’t give a fuck about anyone or anything. It was sheer chance that landed us in the same class together in Priory Lane. I’m not sure what he saw in me that made him latch on so tight.
I’m queuing for a breakfast tray when I catch the first rumblings. The handful of early risers in the line are whispering amongst themselves, and it’s easy to tune in to their low conversation.
“You hear about some riot over the weekend?”
“I heard there were fatalities.”
“Where?” someone replies.
“Blackwood, apparently. The patients escaped then practically destroyed the place on the way out. I’ve got a friend on the outside. He said it’s all over the news.”
“Are they on the run now?” another voice chimes in. “The people who escaped.”
“I guess so. This fancy private security company is investigating. Not the patients—the institute.”
“Blackwood is under investigation?”
“That’s what I hear. They’ve been doing messed-up shit to their patients.”
Sounds like Priory Lane was only the first to fall. Investigations come and go, but usually, nothing ever sticks. That’s what money can buy. Complete and utter impunity. But a riot is far harder to cover up, and it seems to have loosened a few tongues too.
“You think that’s why they’ve stepped up security here?” a female patient wonders. “If a breakout happened at Blackwood, it could happen here.”
“Yeah, dream on.”
“I’m serious!”
Tuning them back out, I stifle an eye roll. They’re all so desperate to escape. And for what? Like the outside world will offer them anything more than rejection and disgust. None of us can ever go back to our former lives.
Especially me. I don’t even have a life to return to. My existence was a solitary one, and at least in here, there’s plenty of fresh meat for my machinations. Endless targets. Curiosities. And the one victim I can’t seem to take my eyes off.
Ripley’s routine is loosely set. Her moods rise and fall like the tide, and with it, her day-to-day activities. It’s taken me a few weeks of careful observation to familiarise myself with her habits.
One of those habits was an eyebrow raiser. I doubt Lennox has clocked that his adopted stray is fucking the girl he loathes. Raine has been a little distant, but given his new Velcro-attachment to Ripley, it isn’t surprising.
Right on time, she stalks into the cafeteria. Today, her loose, tawny curls are pinned back by a crisscrossed pair of paintbrushes, leaving those fierce, mottled brown and green eyes to take centre stage.
They’d look better filled with tears.
I can still remember the magnificent sight.
Absently fiddling with the silver ring slotted into her septum, she pauses to snag an apple and shove it into her pocket. The sweats she wears are ripped and paint stained. Apparently, she couldn’t care less about her appearance or what anyone thinks.
It’s one of the things that makes her so enticing. Previously, I would’ve gone for the weak, insecure ones. Their fear always tasted the sweetest. But getting Ripley to break with her newfound backbone is a far sweeter challenge.
I follow her out, my breakfast long abandoned. Rather than heading for her scheduled therapy session, she stops outside, where the early signs of spring are beginning to reveal themselves.
Ripley pauses at a picnic bench occupied by that sullen, auburn-haired girl she’s often with. Something exchanges between them. The glint of blades, I think. Leaning against the exterior wall, I can just hear them.
“Make these last a bit longer this time?”
The girl shrugs. “You know I’m good for it.”
“That’s not the point, Rae.”
“You going soft on me? What’s with the sour face?”
I watch Ripley’s hands fist. How interesting. She usually wields her authority with complete detachment. It’s enough to make me proud. But right there is a hint, a mere snippet of a different reality within.
The prospect is intriguing. I can work with that. The more I watch her, the more I uncover the chinks in her armour. It’s why I’m doing my due diligence. This time, when I ensnare my little toy, I have no intention of her walking away after.
“Just… Fuck, Rae. Whatever. Forget it.”
“Rip!”
But Ripley is already storming away, her lips clenched tight. Fascinating. I could stay and torment her frowning friend—she seems practically begging for an excuse to splinter apart—but Ripley has my sole attention.
I follow her, tucked out of sight as she scales a small staircase in the west wing, above the therapy rooms. She’s detouring from her schedule. My intrigue spirals. With her all-access pass, obstacles like the locked, staff-only doors are no issue.
Lunging through each door before it can click shut, I follow her ascension to the top floor then prop a shoulder against the wall, hanging back in an empty corridor.
Ripley punches in a short, six-digit code on the door’s keypad. I let her go ahead, the numbers already committed to memory. Though it will be disappointing if she’s resolved to toss her pretty ass off the building before the fun has begun.
When enough time has passed, I tap in the code, finding a narrow service staircase on the other side. Cool morning air beckons me upwards, a silent footstep at a time, until I emerge on the manor’s rooftop.
“Took you long enough.”
Ripley’s voice is flat, resigned.
I step out of the shadows. “Secret hiding place?”
“More like testing how far you’d be willing to follow me. How many more weeks are you going to keep up the stalking for?”
“I prefer the term enthusiastic observation.”
The rooftop is slanted on either side with a flat strip down the centre. She’s tiptoed her way down that platform to find a safe perch, her legs hanging over the edge to rest against slatted roof tiles.
“I prefer the term fucking sociopath.” She flashes me a cold look.
I click my tongue, sensing that I should be offended, if I were capable of feeling such emotion. Enough psychiatrists have explained the difference to me.
“Sociopaths are violent, impulsive creatures with no self-control,” I point out, leaning against the wall before shoving my hands in my pockets. “I’d prefer not to be compared to such recklessness.”
Ripley’s lips purse. “Are you giving me a psychology lesson?”
“If you’re going to insult me, then at least use the accurate term.”
“You’re right,” she scoffs. “You are a fucking psychopath.”
“Much better.”
Her shoulders stiffen at my slow approach. From up here, we have a limitless view of the surrounding woodland. Nothing but trees, rolling hills and the winding road that services the institute.
“Now that we’ve cleared that up.” I crouch down next to her, my head tilted. “Let’s discuss your little excursion with our friend, Raine.”
“You’re real sick for watching, you know?”
“There’s an argument to be made for you continuing despite knowing I was there.”
“I only realised afterwards,” she spits back. “Why are you following me?”
I summon a loose shrug.
“This isn’t like before, Xander. Whatever you’re hoping to achieve with these mind games, it isn’t going to work.”
My, what a sharp tongue.
“There was a time when you quivered at the sight of me,” I muse aloud. “Whatever happened to that scared little mouse?”
“She grew teeth and learned how to bite back.”
Smiling, I slowly reach out to trail a single fingertip down her cheek. I’d forgotten the fascinating pattern of light freckles that blemish her skin. Each mark detailing its own tale. Ripley’s jaw clenches tight.
“Do. Not. Touch. Me.”
“Or?”
Her head turns, pinning two livid eyes on me. “Or this time, I really will kill you.”
“Oh, dearest Ripley.” I lean close to breathe her familiar, oil paint scent in. “I’d like to see you try.”
Brushing the back of my knuckles along her silky-soft cheek, I watch each micro-expression. Nostrils flaring. Muscles locking. Eyes narrowing. Although her mind repels me, her body remembers our time together.
The sad, abandoned child. Desperate for love and attention, even as she cuts the world off with walls thrown so high, she thinks no one will ever dare climb them.
But I did.
She willingly shredded herself for the pleasure of my touch. The relief I drove her to the edge of insanity to achieve did not come easily. Only once I’d conditioned her body to the extremes of ecstasy earned through pain.
“Xander,” she breathes out.
“Hmm?”
Fingers sliding down to her lips, I stroke the chapped swell. She’s been biting her bottom lip again. I’ve seen her do it when she’s anxious or overwhelmed. How very telling. The infallible image displays a few more cracks.
“Get the fuck away from me.” Her voice is strained, telling me she’s forcing this attempt at showing strength.
If only her cowering clique could see her now. The way she trembles with each minuscule touch, her breathing becoming shallow, knuckles slowly turning white. I’ve seen her bravado around Lennox.
But not with me.
My scared little toy is still in there.
“There’s nowhere in this world you can hide from me,” I warn in a low tone. “Not even your little party trick in Priory Lane got rid of me.”
Pushing my thumb past her open lips, I brush the pad against her soft, wet tongue. She shudders, her eyes smouldering, caught somewhere between defeat and hatred. I don’t mind either. But her fight is what I really want.
“Did you think all this power would protect you?” I push my thumb deeper into her mouth. “That I wouldn’t come back for what I’m owed?”
The shift is instantaneous. Her gaze sharpens as her teeth suddenly clamp down on my thumb. Biting hard, she waits for the yelp that never comes. Instead, I force her teeth apart again by shoving my index finger into her mouth for good measure.
“Nice try.”
With droplets of saliva trailing down her chin, I push deeper into her mouth until my index finger is touching her throat. She gags a little, those smouldering eyes now covered in a wet sheen.
My other hand circles her neck, finding a loose grip. I squeeze incrementally, feeling for the erratic pulse of her jugular vein, pumping fear in the form of spillable blood. All it would take is one precise slash.
But what would be the fun in that?
We have plenty of time.
“Tell me, did you fuck him to prove a point?”
Her eyes widen, followed by an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
“Has the self-proclaimed Queen of Harrowdean gone and caught feelings ?” I speak the word distastefully. “How predictable.”
I can only imagine how much she’ll plead when my cock’s in her throat instead. Nothing compares to the thrill of tasting her inner conflict. Desiring humiliation when she demands compliance from the rest of the world.
Tightening my grip, I can almost feel the struggling flow of oxygen attempting to penetrate her trachea. What I wouldn’t give to have her limbs tied and spreadeagled for me right now so that I can do as I please.
I’d tarnish each inch of her body. She bruises so beautifully. Perhaps bloody the rest. Carve my mark into her delicate flesh in case she ever forgets her place again. When the pain becomes unbearable, I’d make that sweet cunt sing.
Sliding my fingers from her mouth, I smear her own saliva over her lips. A single, defiant tear has escaped and rolls down her cheek to join the silvery smear. Capturing it, I bring the salty droplet to my tongue. I’d bottle it if I could.
“I don’t want your throne anymore.” I shake my head. “Instead I want the satisfaction of breaking this body and owning every single move you make while you sit atop your empire.”
She’ll own the world.
And I’ll own her.
My hand loosens enough to grant her several deep gulps. She sucks in air, frenzied and desperate. When she speaks, her voice is a raw rasp.
“You will never, ever control me.”
Vision going red, I release her throat to roughly grab the swell of her right breast. Her tits are as pert and shapely as I remember, the soft mound filling my palm.
“Then what is this if not control?” I counter. “Look at these hard buds threatening to break free.”
I seize the sharp nipple poking my palm through the thin material of her t-shirt. Generous without being too big, her breasts can get away with no support beneath the baggy shirts she insists on wearing.
She whimpers when I twist, her tongue sneaking out to swipe her lips. “Please…”
“Yes, little toy? Please?”
Waiting for the next words to pass her lips, I’m hanging on a deadly precipice.
“Please… tell me.” Her lips curl into a small, defiant smile. “Who hurt you so badly that you have to harm the rest of us to feel even remotely in control?”
It’s a sharp slap to the senses. A bucket of frigid water. I feel my lips thin, the mental bars slamming into place and concrete walls hastily rising to hold back any weakness she may sense.
“Better yet… was his name Daddy?” Ripley gibes.
My mouth goes desert dry.
Her smile expands. “Gotcha.”
Before I can attack, she seizes her advantage. Ripley throws her arms around my neck and flings her entire body to one side. I’m carried with her, rolling and twisting, down the side of the roof.
Jagged tiles slice into my back and sides, but I can’t find purchase to break our tumble. She doesn’t care that she’s risking her own life to end mine. Ripley’s arms remain resolutely locked around my neck.
The world is a blur. Trees, sky, an approaching ledge. It’s all a dizzying muddle. Crying out, Ripley abruptly releases me and throws out her limbs. We reach the industrial-strength gutter at the same time.
Falling.
Thin air.
Biting panic.
Pain slices into my fingers as I catch the edge of the gutter before it’s too late. My hold breaks, but I quickly recapture the thick metal and hold on for dear life. My entire body is hanging on the verge of a fifty-foot drop.
Is this what fear tastes like?
Head whipping from side to side, it takes a moment to register that Ripley isn’t hanging with me. The image of her splattered brains several stories beneath me is a mental assault. Then her voice reaches me.
“What is this if not control?” she taunts.
The bitch is sprawled a few feet above me, her fall halted by an upturned roof tile. Panting and wild-eyed, she shifts to a safer position, preventing herself from slipping towards me.
Ripley eyes my precarious hold from her safe perch. “Falling from that height… you’d be dead on impact, I’d imagine.”
“Help me!” I shout.
She huffs out a cold laugh. “Help? Oh, Xander. I didn’t know you had a sense of humour.”
Arms burning fiercely, I have to watch as she finds her feet then starts a slow crab-crawl back up the sloped roof. Never once looking back to see if I’m still fucking dangling.
“Get back here!”
Her laughter echoes. “The almighty Xander Beck doesn’t need my help.”
“Ripley!” I bellow.
It doesn’t stop her from leapfrogging back onto the central platform and strolling away like she just deposited a parcel at the damn post office. The sound of the exterior door slamming matches my ragged breathing.
Fucking perfect.