Chapter 5 #2
“I’ve seen your file. I think you know better than most what sleep deprivation can do to a person.
” Her eyes narrowed, concern within them.
“While I’m certain you’d never consider such things, I must disclose that should you attempt to avoid or counteract your medications, it will end in termination from Saint Peter’s program. ”
“Of course.” I blinked, shell-shocked. “I’ll be sure to see Sue.”
Her voice softened. “We just want to make sure you thrive here, that’s all. We’re here for you, Fey. I’m here for you. What happened in the past, let’s leave it there and focus on your future, yes?”
Thrive? As if such fantasies were in my makeup. Rita, such a jokester.
I waded through internal fog throughout the day, body heavy but mind wild.
My thoughts cycled through every possible way to avoid my medication, but each led me to the inevitable outcome: sacrificing my future.
Which wasn’t an option, considering such things would risk me being forever under Jack’s thumb.
But sleep—goose bumps reared up across my arms.
My last class with Cillian haunted me. His disturbed comments on my artwork had burned themselves into my brain, rattling about in my skull a million and one times.
How he’d seen my demons wasn’t so much an issue as the simple fact he had.
My darkness was not something I cared to share.
With anyone, ever again. To my relief, he hadn’t shown up to our shared classes in days.
Good. I didn’t want to look at his stupid face anyway.
His distracting and annoyingly familiar face. Nope, not interested.
With the week’s classes finished, I found Roxie waiting for me in the hall.
“Movie in the cinema room tonight?” She grinned, giddy as a Sunday school girl. “They’re probably playing a classic black-and-white movie again but it’ll keep the weekend boredom away.”
Dark room plus cozy recliner equaled prime resting conditions.
While I’d squeezed in a few twenty-minute sleep sessions when needed—not long enough to hit REM, but enough to keep my body from a forced shutdown—the call for long rest was beating down my door.
So, no. Too risky. Not to mention, regardless of my constant aversion, she seemed to really want to hang out, which was puzzling, among other things.
Inconvenient mostly. She was growing on me.
And building any semblance of a relationship was precisely the last thing I planned for my time at Saint Peter’s.
I locked my tablet screen—anatomical heart sketch glaring up at me—shoved it in my bag, and started down the hall. “Actually, I think I’m going to turn in early, maybe do a little reading. I’m exhausted. Thanks, though.”
“What, afraid of the dark?” she jested, falling in line with my steps.
“Yeah.” I laughed, though to an extent it was true. “Terrified.”
“Well, given the stories about this place, I can’t say I blame you.”
“Stories? What kind of stories?”
“That this place belonged to a witch in the 1800s,” she said in a playfully spooky tone, fanning her hands out in front of us.
“They say she lured young women in, the ones deemed strange for one reason or another, promising them top dollar to work as maids for the manor, but their families never heard from them again. Gone, poof. Like they never existed. Apparently, after her death, she donated this place to the Catholic Church as a final joke on the town that’d wrote her off.
The Church inspected everything down to the studs before turning it over to the county.
I think they found something even they couldn’t exorcise … ”
“Yeah, like what? Ghosts?” I chuckled.
“I don’t know. The county locked the records up tight.
But I’ve seen things, late at night when the halls are quiet.
Shadows peeking around corners, that eerie feeling of being watched when nobody else is around.
Footsteps following you down the halls.” She darted in front of me, walking backward.
“See, I have a theory that’s why they put such a harsh emphasis on curfew here.
They don’t want the truth to get out and people to stop enrolling. ”
“Or maybe it’s just an old building with drafty windows and squeaky boards?” I smirked.
“Maybe, but last spring when they put in the new flower beds in the gardens, the staff put the grounds on lockdown. Cops came and everything. Of course, Miss Celine and everyone else on the board kept the details bottled up tight, but …” She returned to my side.
“I heard they found human remains out there. More than one set of bones too.”
A chill ran up my spine. “Wasn’t that normal in the old days? Burying your family in the yard?”
“Sure, but from what little I could find online after, it appeared these bodies had ‘unnatural carvings’ in each of their forearm bones. Witchcraft, if you ask me.”
“Or a kid’s ghost story.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” She shrugged. “Either way, it’s fascinating, right?”
More like unsettling as fuck. “You have an interesting idea of fascinating.”
She laughed and clasped a hand on her shoulder. “Blame my dad for that. He had me watching horror movies with him by the time I was eight. Anyway, you’re sure you won’t come tonight? Lots of people will be there to keep the shadow people in the dark away,” she teased.
“I think I’ll play it safe and stick to my room.” I smiled. “But thanks.”
“Alright, but if you change your mind …”
I wouldn’t. But, for her sake, I said, “If I do, I’ll come find you.”
Once free from the hustle and bustle in the halls, I trekked to the library to commandeer a good read, mindful of each corner and the potential shadows hiding behind them.
Ten-foot shelves complete with rolling ladders and cozy antique chairs greeted me.
And that smell. I heaved a deep breath. Old paper: the best perfume.
I’d barely braved the front shelves—thanks to the crowded aisles and wandering stares—when I stumbled on an interesting title.
After I signed the book out on the library log, I started back to my room.
My bedroom door’s soft swish comforted the introvert in me, and I paused to let the quiet wash over me.
Even without a fire burning in the hearth, warmth radiated between those walls.
There wasn’t a corner untouched by the staff’s meticulous hands.
It was clear they wanted us to feel at home.
To settle in easy. The sense of ease and simplicity wrapped up in old-world charm—sheer curtains filtering the light outside to a soft glow—almost forced the cold right out of my soul. Almost.
But my soul was frostbitten.
I headed straight for my duffle bag atop my dresser.
The one I refused to unpack. Not when I still had ample time to screw up and find myself crawling back home, tail tucked between my legs.
Sad really, but entirely possible. I rummaged through its contents, hunting for my itchy sweater.
I stretched the worn threads over my head, climbed under the covers, and swiped the well-worn book from my side table: Sigmund Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams. The introduction read slightly dry, as was expected of a psychology book written in the late 1800s.
However, as Freud began to delve into potential dream theories throughout the centuries, I could hardly keep up with my own eyes, devouring every word.
“A reminiscence of the concept of the dream that was held in primitive times seems to underlie the evaluation of the dream which was current among the peoples of classical antiquity. They took it for granted that dreams were related to the world of the supernatural beings in whom they believed, and that they brought inspiration from the gods and demons.”
The thought alone forced a disparaging laugh past my lips. “Inspiration from the gods?” Right. But demons? The ones I’d created in my own mind? Yes, without a doubt.
Minutes gave way to hours. Consumed, I grew blind to the heaviness in my eyelids, to the twitch in my toes.
Reading into the twilight hours was risky, irresponsible, but I continued, entranced by Freud’s studies.
Time and again I collected the skin on my forearm and pinched it tight until pink welts claimed their mark.
But sleep, well, it has a way of finding those it aims to woo.
The nightmare took hold.