Shattered Asylum

Chapter 89

There's a sound, soft, steady.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I don't open my eyes yet.

Not because I'm scared of what I'll see. Because I'm scared it'll be nothing.

What if I'm back in that classroom?

What if I'm not?

What if this is a dream inside a dream inside-

My eyes snap open.

The lights are back to dim, flicking slightly overhead like dying stars. No test. No chair. Just the floor beneath me, cold, sticky, wet.

I try to move.

Agony laces through my arms, my spine, my neck.

The chains are back.

Wrist to ankle.

Tighter than before.

My arms are twisted behind me. Numb from the elbows down. Only a cold, dull throb reminds me they're still attached at all.

Was it a hallucination? Did I really see her?

Or... was that part of it? A trick? A warning?

I want to laugh. Or cry. But my throat is so dry it feels like it'll split open if I try.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It's louder now. Closer.

I turn my head, the only movement I can manage, and that's when I see it.

A bucket. In the corner. Half-full of what looks like water.

But it's not water.

It's red.

And floating inside it...

No.

No, no, no...

Hair.

Clumps of it. Long, dark strands. Tangled, wet. Some of it looks like mine.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

This is the game, I realize.

This is how they break people.

You don't have to lay a finger on someone when you can make them see things. Make them doubt their own mind.

I feel it coming, that slipping, sliding sensation in my brain. Like reality is cracking at the edges.

The walls look farther away then before. Or maybe I'm shrinking.

I hear breathing. Not mine.

A voice. From right behind me.

Soft. Calm.

"Hello, baby."

No.

No no no no.

Please not her again.

It feels like it's coming from inside my head, warped and slowed and wrong.

I open my eyes, blinking against the light. A shape moves closer, a woman. Tall. Elegant. Terrifying.

Familiar in all the ways I wish she wasn't.

It's her.

She kneels beside me, brushing a piece of hair from my face with fingers too smooth, too soft for the things she's done.

I try to speak. I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

Not even a whisper. Not a groan.

My throat is so dry it feels like glass.

She tilts her head, smiling sweetly, like I'm five again and just scraped my knee.

"Oh, sweet girl," she coos. "Are you thirsty?"

I nod, barely. My neck protests, muscles screaming. But I manage it.

Please. Please. Anything.

Her expression shifts, just a flicker. Something sharp beneath the sweetness.

"I thought so."

She turns away.

When she comes back, she's holding it.

The bucket.

The one with the blood.
The hair.

She sets it down beside me. The slosh of it makes my stomach twist. The smell hits next, copper and rot and something feral.

She dips a hand in. Swirls the thick liquid with her fingers.

"This'll clench that thirst right up," she says, voice soft as silk.

I try to turn away, but her grip is iron. She grabs my chin, forces my face up.

And before I can scream, before I can spit, or beg, or breathe...

She pours it.

Into my mouth. Over my lips, Down my face.

It's warm. Thick. Sticky.

That taste is worse than death. Salt and rust and something alive.

I choke. Cough. Gag so hard it feels like I might rip something loose inside me. But I can't stop it.

She holds my head steady like I'm nothing.

I sob, but it comes out a croaked wheeze.

Finally, she lets go, and I collapse, coughing, shaking, drenched in what's not mine.

She stands, graceful. Unbothered.

"You'll learn, Aven," she says, brushing her hands off like she just finished setting a table. "You were born from blood. You'll die in it, too."

She walks away without a glance back.

The door slams behind her.

I'm alone again.

And this time, I don't know if I'll ever come back from it.

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Word Count:705