Red on White

by R. M. Sackville

  Red on White

  A Short Story

  R.M.Sackville

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Red on White

  Check out other titles by R.M.Sackville

  Roxy Matthews

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places, or incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 R.M.Sackville

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-989671-06-1

  Check out other titles by R.M.Sackville

  Misery’s Companion

  Tools of Terror

  Hypno-Planticus

  Fame Nor Fortune

  From the Depths

  and

  Roxy Matthews

  Holiday Resistance

  Perfect Stranger

  Pale Bay Treasures series:

  Drago’s Destiny

  McBride’s Gem

  Tanzer’s Jewel

  Doucet’s Stone

  Destiny’s Warrior

  Eternal Enemies series:

  Imprinted

  THE DOOR WAS LOCKED. Windows barred. The sun shuttered away behind dark clouds. Through the rusted wrought irons bars that stretched across Billy Lucas’s bedroom window, he watched the little girl across the street. She skipped along the sidewalk, her gaze fixated on the chalk outline game she drew minutes earlier. Her short crimson curls bounced atop her head, mirrored in the polka dots on her dress while bright white dress shoes tapped the concrete. From inside his bedroom, where stale air met dried urine, Billy envisioned the earthy smell of geraniums lined along the walk path to her front porch, could feel the warm air infused with fresh cut grass and leaf laden trees skitter across his flesh.

  From the front door a woman emerged. She wore a matching floral dress, her crimson hair, streaked with white, tied up in a neat bun. Lifting a hand to her mouth, she cupped it, hollered for the girl.

  “It’s time, Elsie. Come on,” Billy whispered as he watched the little girl stop her game, pivot in place, and take one last leap out of the chalk outline into a beeline for the front door.

  Billy pulled away from the window, gaze lowering to his drab two piece pajamas, complete with missing drawstring and matching socks. No color, no life, like Elsie and her mothers dresses. He ran a hand down the front of his pocket-less shirt, stopping over a small tear he’d worked at most of the day. With little to do but stare at four grey walls, Billy’s days, weeks, and months blurred together. He wondered if he ever wore colors as bright. Had he once hopped along the sidewalk, warm sunshine spilling over bare arms?

  Billy lifted his head to the world beyond the window, caught sight of Elsie and her mother exciting the front of the house hand in hand, smiles exchanged lovingly. Had there once been a time where he smiled like that? Held hands with someone who loved him?

  Behind him, the familiar slide of metal on metal followed by a click warned that the lock on his door was disengaged. She was coming. Billy spun in place, gaze trained on the metal door. The silver doorknob turned, creaked in protest, then stopped. He shivered, his breath caught as voices trickled through the door.

  “I know it’s not my place, but maybe after all these months of trying, we should use a different tactic,” a male voice sounded, one he knew belonged to the man who reeked of coffee and cigarettes.

  Silence.

  “You’re right it’s not your call,” a female replied, her tone cold, voice unmistakable.

  Billy swallowed past the lump in his throat.

  “It’s just,” the male voice continued. “With his history...”

  “Everyone has a history,” the woman interrupted. “My job is not to judge on that. I have my orders, as do you.”

  Billy’s knees shook as the door opened and she stepped into the room. Dressed in her usual floor-length white dress, her hair pulled back tight enough to stretch aged skin, she turned her attention on his empty bed, then to the window where he stood motionless. Even from the distance of several feet, he felt the cold grey of her eyes penetrate his flesh, piercing his soul.

  “Jesus, he pissed himself again.” Behind her, donned all in white, his usual taunting green eyes now narrowed in disgust, Cigarette-Man crossed into the room behind the woman. He scowled at Billy, motioning to the pristine white ceramic toilet and matching sink nestled in one corner. “It’s not like he doesn’t have a damn toilet in here.”

  The old woman, as if unaffected by the outburst or uncaring, kept her vigil. She did not curse like he did, instead she closed in on Billy as if she were a witch floating on a layer of air, her thin fingers clasped before her.

  Behind her, the Cigarette-Man disappeared back through the door only to return seconds later, fresh bed linens draped over one arm. “Why did I ever agree to this bullshit? I’d like, for once, to see someone else have to clean up the messes.” He grumbled and cursed as he made quick time yanking the metal bedframe away from the wall, disrupting the wooden end table at its side.

  “Goddammit,” he hollered as the corner stubbed his toe, toppling a half-full glass of water. He stumbled, fumbled to catch it only to end up standing in the middle of a glass storm, chunks and shards strewn halfway across the room, his uniform soaked to the bone. “Can this day get any fucking better?” He grumbled as he kicked at the glass, all the while leering at Billy.

  Billy shivered, but not because of his tirade, but at the old woman who through it all stood as rigid as a mighty oak, her gaze studying him.

  Several profane-filled minutes later the sheets were changed, Billy’s thick black bedspread draped across the top, the nightstand back in its place, and glass swept up. Once the man disappeared back into the hall, Billy raced past the woman, jumped back into bed, and pulled the covers up to his chin. Only then did she move, pivoting in place, gliding towards him on that same ghostly layer of air, stopping only when she reached the side of his bed.

  His heart pounded in his chest, hands shook as he cupped his knees to his chest.

  She lowered herself to the bed, leaned close enough that he could make out every wrinkled line on her face, her perpetual frown accentuated. With a tug, she ripped the blanket from his grip, reached for one of his arms, and pulled it towards her.

  At the doorway, Cigarette-Man returned, his brows knit in disgust, a sly grin on his face. He crossed his arms across a broad chest, leaned against the frame. “Those restraints sounding any better yet?”

  She did not acknowledge him with a response, instead she pressed cold, bony fingertips into Billy’s flesh. Gaze still locked on him, she held the pressure at his wrist until his fingers began to go numb. Just then, she released her grip, sat back, and stuffed one hand into a pocket in her dress, withdrawing a small translucent pill bottle.

  Billy’s heart skipped, legs twitched.

  She unscrewed the lid, popped three blue pills out into the palm of her hand and held it out with a nod.

  The sight of the pills sent a skitter to Billy’s heart, pang to his chest. His fingers began to shake, eyes water. He didn’t like the pills, not one bit. They made him happy, sad, mad, and scared all at once. He would end up as he always did when she produced those pills, alone in the corner of the room, arms wrapped around his legs as he rocked back and forth fighting the chill in his flesh, the fire beneath. And all the while, his mind flitted through scenes in a horror movie—thick red blood splattered on the floor, horrifying screams that sent a chill to his flesh, the lifeless, bloodied arm of...

  Billy shook his head. He didn’t want the pills, didn’t want the visions. He lifted his hands to cup his ears, squeezed his eyes shut, and whimpered. No,
no pills. They were killing him, he knew it. Slowly each time, they were killing him.

  From deep inside the darkness of his mind where Billy tried to hide away from what was to be, the old woman’s ice-cold fingertips on his chin sliced through. They dug in, forcing his eyes to open, her face inches from his.

  “Why do you even give him the option?” Cigarette-Man complained as he pulled himself from the doorway and stepped into the room, his narrowed gaze fixated on Billy. “Just shove them down his throat and we can move on,” he added.

  Again, the old woman did not react to his tone or curses, instead her gaze stayed locked on Billy’s, her brows snapped together, lips pursed into a thin line. Billy’s heart picked up pace, his palms dampened as tears he fought to keep at bay clouded his vision.

  And that was when he saw Elsie from the corner of his eye. Outside the window, bloodied palms pressed to the glass. The once pristine white dress dotted with flowers now streaked with blood. Her mouth widened on a scream he could not hear, eyes widened in fear.

  Red on white.

  “Billy,” the old woman spoke, pulled him from Elsie, jumpstarting his heart. “The longer you wait, the worse it will be.”

  Tears trailed down his cheeks. In the back of his mind, a blood curdling scream caught his breath. His heart skipped, sweat beaded on his forehead, and then the shake began, one that intensified until his body tensed, muscles contracted, eyes rolled back in his head.

  Seconds before he fell into the abyss he wasn’t sure he’d come out of, Cigarette-Man cursed, lunged from from his position at the door, and pried Billy’s mouth open. “Jesus Christ, Beatrice, force them down,” he hollered.

  “BILLY,” A SOFT FEMALE voice penetrated the fog surrounding him. “Billy,” she called again, her voice quivered, her tone fearful.

  Billy tensed at the familiarity, rose his hands to cup his ears. “No.”

  His body shook as the visions slammed into him. Blood. Lots of it. Staining black into the red swirls on the throw rug beneath her, bright red on the white ones. Billy’s heart picked up pace as a second voice pulled through the fog, this one tugged at his heart.

  “Mom,” he whispered.

  And then came the blood curdling scream, pounding of feet on the floor. “What did you do Billy? Billy, what did you do,” she screamed.

  Just then, warm hands curled over his shoulders. “Billy?”

  The old woman, Beatrice.

  Billy braced himself for cruelty that didn’t come. Instead, she tightened her fingers on his shoulders until his pulse slowed, body relaxed. His fingers, no longer in white knuckled grip on the sheet beneath him, toes no longer curled, he exhaled the breath he’d held in a whoosh.

  “There we go.”

  Billy struggled to open his lids weighed down by the drugs she’d forced him to take. When he couldn’t, panic struck him, fingers tightened around the sheet once more. “I...I,” he stumbled trying to get his vocal cords to work.

  From the doorway, shuffling feet pulled his attention. He tried to turn to the sound but found his body wooden. His eyes widened in fear.

  “You could’ve killed him, Beatrice,” Cigarette-Man’s hoarse voice sounded seconds before he stepped into Billy’s line of sight. “Just admit it’s time to try another way.”

  “Shush,” she called over her shoulder. Beatrice leaned close, stared directly into one eye, then the other before pulling back. Cold fingertips clenched his arm, releasing his grip on the sheets. She rotated his wrist, one bony thumb pressed hard.

  “I have a job to do, Chad.” Beatrice peered over her shoulder at him. “Both of us do.”

  “Yes, but there are processes set for a reason.” Chad motioned towards Billy, scoffed. “And as much as I don’t believe he deserves this cushy life, I don’t want to have to fucking clean up a dead body.”

  Beatrice turned her attention back to Billy. “He’s not going to die. He’ll learn to accept the medication prescribed, then his reform will be different than the others. He’ll accept it instead of fighting it.”

  “Reform?” Chad scoffed. “You still think you can reform him?” He pointed a hairy finger at him. “You can’t reform an animal.”

  Beatrice pulled herself up off the side of his bed, clasped her hands before her, grey eyes once again stern. Rounding in place, she faced Chad. “He’s not an animal, but a consequence of flawed genes.”

  Chad rolled his eyes. “You’ve gotten soft, Beatrice. Brunner syndrome or not, you know what he did.”

  Silence fell over the room as the two faced off. Billy squirmed.

  “We do things my way. I’m the Warden for a reason. Now have his dinner brought up.” Her voice was cold, her words powerful. “And if you doubt me in front of one of my patients again, there will be consequences.”

  Chad’s eyes widened, mouth gaped open with a retort, but Beatrice cut him short by gliding past him and out the door.

  ONCE HE WAS ALONE IN his room, Billy lowered himself to the plush pillow, pulled the blanket up under his chin, and stared at the ceiling.

  His reform will be different than the others.

  Others? There were other kids here? Why had Beatrice taken them? Was she forcing them to take pills too, bringing on nightmares? Billy shivered. Sure, he had a bed to sleep in, food to eat, but what he didn’t have was freedom. He deserved freedom, they all did. Freedom outside their four-wall cells, freedom from the pills, from the nightmares. He grimaced at the thought. It was the damn pills, he knew it. Before he was brought to Beatrice...he stopped. Was he brought here? Taken? Either way, there’d been no blood-red visions or blood curdling screams before. Before, he wondered. What had before been like?

  A soft rap on the metal door jerked Billy from his own thoughts. When a second rap sounded, he jerked up in bed, his comforter pooling around his waist, his attention on the closed door.

  “Billy.”

  His heart skipped in his chest, eyes rounded. “Elsie,” he choked out.

  “Billy, mom told you to share.”

  Billy’s heart raced, perspiration littered his forehead. His gaze pulled from the door to his hands. Hands now covered in blood, an equally saturated butcher knife in his right. He gasped, his body tensed, sending the hairs on his arms to stand.

  Red on white.

  Then came the zing. A zip of electricity that started in his head and shot down, escaping through the tips of his fingers and toes. He exhaled the breath he’d held, lifted his chin, squared his shoulders, and narrowed his eyes back on the closed door.

  “Put it down, Elsie. You’re going to kill him,” he warned through clenched teeth.

  He could see Elsie’s smirk on her stupid face as she jumped up and down on the red and white swirled area rug, crimson pigtails taunting him. In her cupped hands, Oliver’s little whiskers popped through her fingers. His little pink nose struggled to push through.

  Billy kicked the covers off his legs, jumped off the bed, his fingers dug into the grooves on the knife’s handle at his side.

  “Share. Share. Share,” she taunted.

  “No, he’s mine. Give him back,” he ordered.

  When she only laughed, continued to bounce up and down with Oliver in her cupped hands, Billy’s arms tensed, fingers tightened around the handle, the other into a white knuckled fist.

  A distant sound of metal on metal followed by a click didn’t pull him from the vision, neither did the doorknob turning. All Billy could see was his stupid little sister, her eyes narrowed on him, lips curled as she jumped higher, faster. The sight of her tightening her hands around his hamster. The sound of Oliver’s squeals as he was being crushed. Blood escaped through the cracks in her fingers, dripping to the floor beneath.

  “No,” Billy screamed out, but he knew it was too late. Tears flooded his eyes, clouded his vision.

  Metal moaned as a door opened, Billy knew who it was. His body shook with rage, tears spilling from his eyes as he lifted the now gleaming silver butcher blade before him and charged t
he door. Charged at Elsie. At his mother. At everyone. Because his was a heart filled with a hatred he knew all too well, the visions, the memories now all falling into place.

  “What did you do Billy? Billy, what did you do,” his mother screamed.

  “Share. Share. Share,” Elsie taunted.

  Billy roared as he closed the distance between himself and them. It was time to stand up. Not just for Oliver, but himself.

  CHAD FUMBLED WITH THE slide lock on Billy Lucas’s door with one hand, a metal tray loaded with a carton of milk, sliced apples, and a crisscross cut sandwich balanced on the other. He cursed, reached for the handle and turned it. He didn’t believe the kid deserved such a carefully prepared meal. Hell, none of the kids at the Institute did, in his opinion. But, as Beatrice liked to shove in his face from time to time, he wasn’t the Warden and the rules were the rules. He scoffed. He’d like to see where in the damn manual it said he had to take fucking crusts off sandwiches.

  Chad pushed the door in, looked up just in time to see Billy’s widened eyes on him, dark, menacing. His teeth bared, back hunched.

  His eyes widened on Billy as he stumbled back, dropping the tray. The carton of milk plopped at his feet, splattered milk in all direction, sliced apple pieces rolled along the floor, triangular sandwiches in their wake.

  “What the hell kid, get the fuck in your bed,” he ordered. His gaze lowered to Billy’s fists. “Fuck.”

  “AND THAT WAS WHEN THE fucking kid snapped,” a male voice grumbled from the seat to his left, one hand lifted to his bloodied forehead, fingers clenched around a rag soaked through.

  Red on white.

  Billy kept his attention on the seat, where Elsie sat, her face smashed in on one side, the once silver blade protruding from her skull. He grinned at the blood dripping from her forehead into her eyes, the empty look to them, her skin grey. She looked like hell, and she deserved it.