Lolli-Gag (The Beautiful Creatures of Hillsboro Institute #1)

Prologue

Logan Gaggiano

Eight years ago…

The sun bleeds out across the sky, licking up my skin as it begins to set. I stand at the edge of Lili’s yard, running through the sprinklers, giggling with my best friend on this hot summer evening. I slide, slamming into the chainlink fence, my fingers digging into the hot metal.

“Logan! You gotta go!” Lili yells, but I don’t answer.

I spent my day with Lili and her brothers, but hell awaits just down the block, over the tracks in the trailer park.

Same peeling paint, same crooked steps, same door that swelled in this heat, making it impossible to sneak in.

Lili throws a towel at me, and I smile in thanks.

She knows I hate my home life. She knows I’d rather be with her than anywhere else.

Yeah, her three brothers tease me but at least they don't tell me I’m worthless and should’ve never been born.

I towel off and put on the shorts and t-shirt I came over in, then hand her the soaked cotton back.

“See you tomorrow Lili?” I ask, and she smiles, nodding.

“Yep! But tomorrow you’re sleeping over!

Slumber party it is." She giggles, and I give her a hug. A little too tight but it’s okay.

She just wraps her arms around me and squeezes just as tightly.

Once we break apart, I leave her yard and walk down the dirt road.

The sun keeps dropping over the horizon and the street lights above me flicker on.

“You’re late, Honeycomb. She’s not going to be happy,” Jethro warns.

“I know. But hopefully she’s drunk enough not to notice,” I say as I continue to walk over the tracks and into the trailer park.

The cool breeze crawls up my skin and I shiver.

Each step I take dread fills my limbs. Why is everything so quiet?

No music blasting through the park. No yelling from the neighbors.

Just silence, and that is just so much worse.

An unsettling feeling causes goosebumps to litter my skin as I approach my trailer.

All the lights are on and the TV is blasting.

I swallow thickly as I creak open the front door.

“Mom,” I call out, but nothing. The air inside is thick, like burnt rubber and stale cigarettes. My stomach twists knowing even at ten years old what my mother is doing. “Mom…?” I yell out, and a shadow shifts in the kitchen.

“There you are!” she says in a sickly sweet tone.

Her blonde hair is matted like she hasn’t showered in days.

As she gets closer to me, I see her eyes are pinned almost white.

They were once blue and bright just like mine, but now…

she looks scary. I freeze because her voice is sweet but her stance is viscous, and I’m not sure how to feel or if I should even take a breath.

Breathing the wrong way can get me a slap across the face.

Blinking too many times will get a cigarette put out on my legs where no one can see.

She leans down and cups my face. I almost flinch because she is never caring.

I don’t think she has a nurturing bone in her frail body.

I swallow as her fingers caress my face, then she moves away quickly and walks over to the stove, smiling.

“I made you something,” she says, but I don’t move.

I’m too afraid. “Come here, baby.” There's that honey tone again as she reaches out for me. I don’t flinch, I don't breathe. I just move in and take a step towards her. She looks down at the counter and I see it’s a glass of milk.

Milk? She holds it then hands it to me. I take it, bringing it to my lips, and smelling it, but it doesn’t smell fresh or spoiled.

It just isn’t right. I peek up at her through my lashes as she glares down at me.

I’m not sure what she expects me to do but I hesitate.

“Thank you, Mama, but I’m not hungry,” I whisper, but she tilts her head slowly, her fingers curling around the edge of the counter.

“That’s okay, baby, you don’t have to be hungry,” she says gently. Almost too gently as she takes a step towards me.

“Don’t do it,” Jethro warns as her fingers wrap around my wrist, the same wrist that is clutching onto the glass, trying not to spill it because then I’ll be in even more trouble.

“Drink up, baby,” she tells me, digging her nails into my tender flesh while lifting my arm, forcing the glass to my lips.

“No, Logan. Don’t drink it!” he screams.

“Be a good girl and drink,” she spits, her voice harsher this time.

The glass shakes in my hand as I take a sip, but she tips it, forcing more down my throat.

I gag a little but swallow it down. God forbid I make a mess.

She tilts it even more making sure I drink every last drop.

“Good girl, Logan. This makes me very happy.” She smiles as honey drips from her lips.

My eyes zone in on her rotting teeth and the smell of burnt rubber from her breath.

“Careful,” Jethro warns. My stomach twists as a sudden rush of heat flows through my veins making me dizzy.

My limbs start to feel heavy and I sway, grabbing onto anything within reach, but nails dig into my arms, and I try to scream for help but nothing comes out.

All I see is my mother’s smile and those rotting teeth.

“It will be okay, Honeycomb. I’m here. I’m right here with you.”

She guides me over to the table and forces me down into the chair, the ripped leather squeaking as I sit.

My head lulls to the side as the room warps and I see a rainbow of colors.

My chest tightens, making it hard to breathe as drool seeps from my lips.

I see her walk over to the oven and turn it on, then she spins, looking at me.

“It’s the only way I can have peace,” she says with a wide smile.

Then slowly I feel my body sway, left, right, left, then my head smashes against the table and everything goes black.

“Honeycomb, I need you to wake up. I need you to fight,” Jethro tells me.

He’s been my imaginary friend all my life.

I can’t remember when he showed up but I never want him to leave.

My mother says I’m crazy. That there’s no such thing as imaginary people.

But she’s wrong. I see him. I can feel him.

He’s with me all the time. How can she say such a thing?

“Jethro, why is it so hot? Everything hurts. But I can’t move,” I yell.

My face hurts so badly. It feels like my skin is melting, dripping off the muscle and there’s nothing but bone left.

I scream and scream but the heat just gets hotter and hotter.

“Jethro. Make it stop. Please make it stop,” I beg, but nothing happens.

I can’t feel him or see him. I don’t see anything but darkness.

I’m not sure my eyes are even open. My body just burns, and I scream.

But am I really screaming? “Help! Someone help me!” I don’t understand.

The heat becomes unbearable and I can’t breathe, I choke, gag, and cough, but then darkness takes over again as my body burns into nothing but ash.

Present day- 8 years later… Hillsboro Mental Institute of the Criminally Insane…

They said I survived, that I was lucky. That my mother was the one who saved me from killing myself in that oven. But I remember… I remember it all. The voice. The milk. The oven. I know it was her, but I have no voice and my face—well, it’s fucking ruined.

Sitting on this metal chair, I look in the mirror at myself while slathering on thick, white paint. I hate what she did to me—what she took from me. I hate that even when I defend myself no one believes me.

The reflection in the mirror smiles as I bring the black paint stick above my brows, drawing diamonds over my eyes and down to my cheekbones.

My blue eyes shine against the darkness.

It’s the only sign I’m alive, but beneath it all is a scared little girl screaming for love and for just one person to believe her. Pick her!

I slam the paint stick down as Jethro comes to stand beside me.

Ignoring him, I lift the red lipstick and paint my lips along with two sharp lines in the crease of my lips, partially hiding some of the burns left.

There—so much better now. I smile but the reflection smirks knowing what's to come the longer I stay here. I never leave this room without my makeup because what’s underneath is horrific.

Scars of melted skin that never healed. They twist along my cheeks and disappear beneath the collar of my shirt, trailing down my arms like something tried to write a story into my skin but ran out of time.

Always left unfinished. Tilting my head, I grin as Jethro’s black fingers trace along my scars, making them cool instead of hot.

I sigh, letting his touch seep down to the bone.

“They’re watching again,” he whispers, kissing my cheek. I shrug because I don’t care; let them watch. Shit, I’ll even give them a show.

“Oh, I know. They always are. Nothing is ever private here. You know that.” I giggle.

Jethro takes a step back, putting his hand out for me to take, helping me to stand.

He never smiles. He used to, but ever since we got here, he’s been a ball of anger.

Watching and waiting. “Even after all these years. They still think I tried to hurt myself. Not once have I shown any aggression towards anyone other than those that harm us or people I care about,” I sing as I drag my finger up the scars on my arm.

“They say I liked it. That I wanted to cook myself.” My grin widens as the words leave my lips.

“Funny isn’t it, Jethro,” I say as I tilt my head, listening as if someone is going to come in here and shut me up, then I burst out laughing, letting my voice carry through the room and out into the hall.

A warning. “They weren’t there,” I whisper, and for a second, my laughter dies down and my eyes shift.

Not to Jethro. Not the room, but somewhere else. Somewhere warmer. Suffocating.

The smell hits me first. Sweet. Rotting.

The memory of that night burnt into my memory living deep in my lungs.

The oven light, her smile. “It’s the only way I’ll get peace,” I whisper as my nails fly up to my face digging into the scars under my painted skin.

“They said she was sick.” I pace. “They said she didn’t know.

” I giggle. “They said I made it up.” I stop in my tracks, remove my fingers from my face, and a slow smile spreads again.

“Jethro knows,” I whisper. My eyes flicker to him.

Always to him. “And Jethro hates liars,”

Somewhere down the hall, a scream cuts through the building then another, then silence.

I giggle, then hum a soft tune as I walk toward the door, but I stop and look at Jethro who stands beside me.

“They think they locked me in here.” I giggle, and he lifts my hand, bringing it to his black lips.

“But this is where I learned how to play.” I giggle again, reveling in Jethro’s cold lips against my skin.

“They made me this way. Now, they get to keep me.” I smile sinisterly, and for the first time in a long time, Jethro smiles back and his red eyes light up like molten lava.

I press my fingers against my painted lips then drag them slowly downward, stretching my red smile even wider.

“Logan Gaggiano died eight years ago… Now Lolli-Gag is here to play…” I whisper, then resuming humming my soft tune as I leave my room and enter into the world of Hillsboro Institute—where no one gets to leave the same way they arrived.

And a-way we goooooo…