What have these bastards done to me?
She leaned on her elbows and pushed herself upright into a sitting position. It took an immense effort, her body broken, fueled only by the crazed adrenaline of the escape. It was time to open her eyes. She positioned her head down toward the mattress where the light wouldn’t be as bright.
One . . . Two . . . Three!
Her eyes flooded with tears as pressure on her eye socket reverberated to her brain. She gasped, almost vomiting from the pain. As her vision cleared, the tacky blood was apparent, splattered on her hands, legs, and all over the mattress. She stared at her limbs in shock. They weren’t just thinner—it seemed like she had lost bone density. The flickering fluorescent light highlighted the gruesome scene. Dried pools of urine and sweat soiled the sheets. On the edges of the bed were the thick iron chains that had kept her prisoner. Their ends connected to a decaying brick wall that encompassed the room. A rusty iron door enclosed the entrance. The place felt more like a medieval dungeon than a mental facility. To her left were a stainless-steel table and sink. A green file rested on the table. On the cover, written with a black permanent marker, were the words ABIGAIL BLAKE CASE FILE.
She was short on time, but she had to know. It meant more to her than escape. She flicked open the folder. It contained a thesis:
“The Sloth Bear Theory: Why Do Some Mammal Mothers Kill Their Young?”
Her eyes skimmed over the text.
Why do some mothers do the unthinkable and kill their children? It negates nature . . .
Her palm slammed over her mouth to suppress the screaming. The file dropped from her hand onto the smooth green epoxy floor and out spilled a set of grayscale images. Even from a distance, she could see they were gruesome. She lowered herself onto her knees. Hands shaking, she picked up the photos. Two corpses lay in a muddy ditch in the woods. A man and a toddler, their bodies mutilated to an unrecognizable degree. She recoiled in disgust but forced herself to see.
Oh my God. Robert, Jonah?
She had to know. Her eyes darted in sheer panic, scanning the images for any noticeable detail. It was a gory mess of torn flesh and mud. Then she noticed Robert’s silver-gray hair peeking out from within the dirt. Just a few strands, but it was enough. She couldn’t take another look at the toddler. Her vision blurred, and the room swirled like a fast merry-go-round. The photos dropped to the floor. She grabbed her head with both hands.
“I’m a monster. I killed them!”
The spinning intensified, and her head slammed into the concrete floor. The black abyss was back with a vengeance.
CHAPTER 8
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
The alarm in the room stirred her to consciousness. Bloody saliva drooled from her mouth onto the concrete floor—her cheek pressed against the cold green paint. She opened her eyes. The doctor still wasn’t back, so it couldn’t have been long. She lay sprawled in the middle of the room, and the file with the documents was within arm’s length. Next to her head were the keys. She grabbed them and dragged herself to her knees; there was one thing left to do. She summoned all her strength and crawled toward the door. Now she understood why the doctor said she tried to kill herself the last time they allowed her to see. She had seen the file or other damning evidence. It made perfect sense. There was no reason to keep going. Every breathing moment was torture that surpassed any physical pain. This time she would succeed. As her elbows and knees shuffled along the smooth surface, she thought about the best way to end it. A high window would do; that was the fastest and least painful option. Not that she deserved an oasis. She deserved the worst imaginable hell. But this wasn’t about what she deserved; she wanted to reach the eternal world. If there was one, it would reunite her with her family, and if there wasn’t, she would be in a different kind of black abyss. One where nothing existed and your actions didn’t have consequences. A peaceful state of nothingness.
Her hand grabbed the rusty handle of the iron door. She pulled herself to her feet and inserted one of the smaller brass keys. It fit in the keyhole, but the door wouldn’t budge. She fiddled with the other brass keys until the door cracked open. Without hesitation, she spilled into the dim corridor. All she needed was a window. Simple enough, she told herself. She leaned one arm against the wall to compose her dizziness and made her way with small cautious steps. The few hanging light bulbs weren’t enough. The corridor was damp and dark as an underground tunnel. Her feet stumbled, legs struggling to maintain her slender body. Her muscle mass reduced to a walking skeleton, a pale comparison to her former self. She had never imagined that any institution could be this cruel—then again, she had never imagined the consequences of murdering your family and losing your mind. This was as close as it gets to being buried alive. She passed another iron door to her right but breezed past it, afraid that a member of the hospital staff would emerge. A light bulb flickered toward the end of the tunnel, illuminating a wooden staircase.
Yes, I have to get higher, find a window.
She quickened her pace, using the muddy brick walls to drag herself forward.
“Help me, please. I’m afraid, help me get out of here.”
She heard whimpering up ahead that sounded like an innocent child. The voice belonged to a girl no older than ten years old. She shuffled toward the sound, which came from another iron door a few feet up ahead. She stopped right in front of the door—a tense moment of silence, only her labored breath audible.
“Please, I want my mommy. I want to go home.”
The voice shook Abbie to the core. It seemed like this girl had exhausted all her tears and was now pleading for her fate. This was no place for a child. What could she have done to deserve being locked up here? The special ward was a unique hellhole. Her maternal instincts kicking in, she stared at the keys in her hand and hesitated. She placed her palm and forehead on the door, tears and sweat dripping off her chin.
What am I doing?
Her mission was to end her life at the first opportunity. There was nothing that she could do for this girl, besides give her false hope.
“Mommy, please take me home,” the girl said.
Abbie tensed her fist around the keys, bit her lower lip to halt the tears, and did the only merciful thing she could do at that moment: move on. Her bare feet stepped onto the timber staircase, and she hauled herself forward one step at a time. The light bulb above her head flickered off for two or three seconds at a time, leaving her in partial darkness. Only the tunnel behind her remained illuminated. The dark didn’t frighten her as she had already grown accustomed to it. In some strange way, it comforted her. She made her way up the staircase, a sturdy black iron door ending her climb. She waited a few seconds to calm down and regain her breath. The climb was a monumental effort. There was no fear—it was comforting to know that her ordeal would soon be over. She glanced at the keys in her hand and picked one at random. It fit in the keyhole, and with a double twist, the lock clicked open. Maybe her luck was changing. She placed a trembling hand on the cold iron handle and pushed open the door. A draft of air breezed into her face as if she had unlocked a forgotten tomb. She entered an ample space illuminated only by a red neon light. A maze of rolling clothing racks obstructed her path. She eased the door shut behind her and stepped onto the rough concrete floor, her bare, skeletal feet treading past the variety of clothing—a multitude of blue short-sleeved scrub tops and pants and white coats. She rounded the first row of racks. There were extravagant evening dresses, high heels, wigs, tailored suits. She quickened her step. Was she hallucinating again?
A window, find a God damn window!
She turned to the right, left, left again, almost at running speed. Children’s clothing, ranging from toddler to teenager sizes, adorned the racks to her right, pressed and organized like in a dry-cleaning service.
“I told you to leave, didn’t I?”
Abbie cowered, slipping her frail
body in between the clothes. The modulated voice was unmistakable. Dr. Falk was a few feet away, somewhere on the other side of the rack.
“I’m not leaving. You need me. I know how to deal with that bitch!”
“Fiona! That’s the last time you’ll call her that. She is our patient, and we have strict orders on how to treat her. She’ll die if she’s not attended too. You’ve been reckless, and I won’t let you near her again.”
Abbie covered her mouth with a trembling palm. The two people she feared most in this altered reality were so close that she could hear their movements. And there she was, lost in a strange sea of children’s garments, about to face the harshest of consequences. These people were monsters. She slipped a vertical flat palm between a pair of jeans and a pink tulle flower dress, creating the smallest of openings without the risk of exposing herself. She had a straight, narrow view of the other side of the rack. The same reddish neon glow illuminated the area, but it was too dark to discern anything. She couldn’t see anybody, not even a silhouette, nothing. To the right of her peripheral vision emanated a faint yellow glow. She needed to move.
“Freddy, you know I’m not going anywhere. So stop fighting with me, darling. Let me finish applying my makeup so I can get your precious Abigail some food.”
“No, I can’t trust you to treat any patient in this facility!”
The tone of the conversation raised a notch. Abbie crawled her way through the middle of the rolling rack, concealed by the hanging clothes. She headed toward the yellow light and the voices.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Doctor. Is that what you want to hear? You won’t survive a day without me, you ungrateful son of a bitch.”
Abbie kneeled across from them under cover of the clothing rack. Their tense energy was palpable. She rested her buttocks on her heels and straightened her back. Again, she slid a vertical palm between two pieces of clothing, creating a small concealed slit through which she could see. Shocked, she jerked her hand back, covering her nose and mouth to muffle her gasps.
What in the world did I just see? What’s happening to me?
She rubbed her eyes and tried again, slipping her right palm between the clothing, convinced that she wasn’t tripping out. An icy chill ran from her cervical spine to her tailbone. Out of all the scenarios that her mind envisaged while planning the escape, this was not one of them. She closed her eyes, seeking momentary solace within the black abyss. Hope for a quick and painless death deserted her.
CHAPTER 9
“Leave my hair alone. Stop it, Freddy!”
The voice belonged to Fiona, but there was no Fiona.
Abbie didn’t dare to breathe, staring at his scarred, shirtless back. The skin discolored in patches of inky purple, pink, and black. His shoulders were broad but not muscular and in proportion to his slim physique. A wig of peroxide blonde matted hair cascaded onto his upper back. He posed, naked, in front of a rock star–styled vanity dresser. Big bulbs around the circumference of the mirror illuminated his round, smiling face. Light blue eyes, almost a shade of turquoise, scrutinized the mirror, like a diva preparing for her big show. However, these were no diva’s eyes. They burned with menace and passion—a self-infatuation that spelled imminent danger. He painted his eyebrows a thick black, his face smooth and hairless. With one hand, he applied a reddish lipstick to his puffy Botox-induced lips. His fingers were long and bony, the fingernails painted black. The other hand tugged at his wig.
“I warned you, Freddy! I’ll teach you a lesson.”
He lowered the lipstick.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
He slapped himself hard in the face as if it were not his own. The hand clutching the wig let go. He sat in awe, staring at his reflection.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Please, just keep her alive for now. We have our orders,” he said in Dr. Falk’s voice, pleading with himself in the mirror. Tears welled up in his eyes, the turquoise shimmering off the glow of the lights.
Slap.
“That’s right! Stop crying like a little bitch and let me do my job.” That was Fiona’s voice, a deep timbre that became a higher pitch in parts. He straightened his back and glared at his reflection, with a hyena-like smirk lining up its target. The turquoise eyes darkened—first a light shade of brown, then a chestnut brown, and until charcoal black. The broad smile returned, and he continued to apply a lavish amount of lipstick.
Abbie remained still, struggling to process what she had just witnessed. Her predicament was clear. Although she couldn’t remember what last happened to her by the lake, and she didn’t know the fate of Robert and Jonah, she now knew for sure she was no monster. She was a victim of a demented individual, and she prayed that he did not harm her family.
But what about the images of the man and the boy in the case file?
She covered her face to suppress the sobbing as the thought filled her with rage, anguish, and a deep sense of purpose. The slim chance that they were alive sparked her survival instincts. Either way, she needed to survive to get justice. She focused on a way out. The best option was to hide within the clothing and wait for him to go down into the basement, then make a run for it. It would give her a brief head start. She watched him pout his lips and brush the long locks of blonde hair. His eyes were dark and fierce, torture radiating from within. He would deliver some intense pain today and she prayed that she would escape by then. She thanked her lucky stars. Any more of this ordeal, and it would leave her permanently altered, a broken vessel that could never be fixed.
What about the girl? What’ll happen to her if I’m gone?
She shuddered at the implications for the girl. Alone, scared out of her wits, and in the hands of a real-life monster. The monsters that children imagine are never as evil as what the world can create. Abbie wrestled with her maternal and survival instincts.
Is it worth the risk?
Robert and Jonah needed her, and she needed them more than anything else in the world.
Are they even alive? If they aren’t, what kind of life would I return to?
It would be the kind of life she didn’t want to live. They were everything to her. Then again, this girl surely had a family that was losing their mind from worry. A mother’s pain for a lost child is worse than anything hell can deliver. She had to save her, it outweighed her own survival. She lowered her shaky palms onto the rough concrete, her mind spinning from fatigue, fear, and adrenaline. A few deep breaths steadied the swirling, but a surge of bile rushed up her throat, filling her mouth and expanding her cheeks like a blowfish. She placed a palm over her mouth, the yellowish secretion leaking through her fingers. She drew the hanging jeans toward her mouth, letting the fluid spill onto the clothing. It smelled like a rotten corpse. She wiped her hands and cheeks on the tulle dress and took one more look at his face. He applied a rich layer of makeup on his broad forehead, concealing knife-like scarring. His radiant smile conflicted with the torture in his eyes. Abbie glanced away. She would never forget that unearthly terror for the rest of her life. She slipped out from behind the clothing and back into the maze of rolling racks. Hunched over, her feet moved fast but quiet on the surface, carrying her ailing body toward the basement.
Clickety-clack. Clickety-Clack.
He was moving. She could hear his high heels coming from the dresser.
Oh, God, please no.
She ran as fast as her feet would allow, like a wounded animal. It was dark within the maze, the red glow too faint to illuminate the entire way.
Left. Right. Right. Right. Left.
She twisted and turned between the clothing racks, maintaining a running pace. She came to an abrupt stop, the basement door inches from her face. The sharp stop grazed the soles of her feet on the rough concrete. She fought the urge to scream out in pain.
Clickety-clack. Clickety-Clack.
It was impossible to tell whether he was moving in her direct
ion. Without hesitation, she twisted the black iron handle, and the door jolted open just enough for her frail frame to squeeze through. She charged down the timber staircase without shutting the door behind her. It was the only way in or out. Her feet thudded against the creaking wooden stairs—it was too late for caution. She jumped over the final stair and hit the floor hard, falling to her knees and elbows. She ground her teeth and crawled through the pain. The cell was only thirty feet to her right. A small cloud of dust rose in the air with every movement. She pulled the collar of the hospital gown over her nose and shut her eyes, not pausing for a moment. She counted ten seconds.
Eight. Nine. Ten.
She opened her eyes. The dust was suffocating, clinging to her eyeballs like breadcrumbs to a flour and egg blend. She rubbed her eyes against the back of her hand, clearing her blurred vision. The iron door was an arm’s length away. She dragged herself to her feet using the handle.
“Water, please. Help me.” The voice of the girl was hoarse and desperate.
“I’m here to help you. My name’s Abbie. Don’t worry, we’re getting out of here.”
There was a shuffling sound on the other side of the door.
“Please, ma’am, help me. I want to go home to my mama.”
Abbie fumbled with the keys in desperation, glancing toward the staircase. She could sense his imminent presence like a hunted deer aware of its predator lurking in the shadows. There was no knowing what sick plan he had in mind, but the damage would be irreversible. Abbie slotted the key in the keyhole—it didn’t fit. The large key was for the chains. She had two other keys left to try. She battled to get the first key out of the keyhole and then slotted in the second. It didn’t even fit in the keyhole. The girl’s kitten-like sobs emanated through the door.
Eye For Her: A gripping must-read thriller Page 5