The Curse of M

by Stevie Barry

He couldn't read her expression at all, and for the thousandth time he cursed his inability to read her mind. Part of him wanted to shake her, to rattle some sense into that pigheaded brain of hers, but that would be the absolute worst thing he could do. That stare of hers was actually unnerving him a little.

  "If you were anyone else, I'd feel sorry for you," Lorna said at last, sipping her tea. "You're fighting a losing battle, and I think part'v you knows it. I know part'v you does, after reading that. You're too smart to think this'll ever work."

  Von Ratched fought a sigh, knowing there was no arguing with her right now. "Eat your dinner," he said at last. "We can discuss this later."

  She quirked an eyebrow at him, but for once in her life did as she was told.

  ----

  Ratiri didn't think he'd ever been so nervous in his life. Even dealing with Von Ratched hadn't unsettled him to this degree.

  At least he wasn't the only one. The four escapees waited in the wings for their interview on the Morning Hour, awkward in formal clothes and jittery from too much caffeine. Only Katje seemed calm, standing there in a black blouse and a burgundy skirt that was actually long enough to be decent. Her face was a picture of serenity, but more surprisingly, her aura was, too. He'd had to pick so much grey worry out of Geezer's and Gerald's that his hands still stung, but Katje was actually looking forward to this. At least someone was.

  The guys before them exited the stage, and Ratiri drew a deep breath, trying to slow his pounding heart. Butterflies were holding a rave in his stomach, and his palms were damp with sweat.

  Katje gave his hand a brief, reassuring squeeze before they headed out, and her resolve steeled him. He stood straight as they filed to the long couch beside the anchors' desk, his hands steady as he sat.

  He glanced at the other two. Gerald was obviously terrified in spite of his attempts to appear calm, but Geezer was outwardly composed, even if his aura wasn't. Katje had cajoled him into wearing a suit, and for once he'd had a proper shave. He was worlds away from the old wino who had first appeared at the Institute; he had the bearing of a military man, his stern expression giving nothing away.

  The female host, a pretty woman with a sunny yellow aura, dark hair, and a distinct Estuary accent, welcomed them. "These four are members of the group we now call the altered, who have escaped an experimental facility in the state of Alaska. They've come to tell us their story. Here we have Ratiri Duncan, Katje DaVries, Gerald Hansen, and Geezer." She said Geezer's name with a hint of confusion, as everyone did. "Ratiri, you left for America from the U.K.?"

  He nodded. "From London, actually. I was working at Great Ormond Street when I developed my…ability. At the time I didn't think it was safe to remain, so I fled to Canada. Looking at everything now, I think I might have been better off if I'd stayed here. Things have certainly changed."

  "That they have. Tell us how you were sent to the Institute."

  He did, sparing the audience the more gruesome details. He explained his curse, wisely leaving out the fact that he could use it to make people hallucinate. He showed off the ugly scars on his wrists, which made both hosts wince.

  It went down the line like that, buy Ratiri didn't listen -- he was too relieved to have finished his tale. Hopefully he wouldn't have to tell it again.

  The hosts and many of the audience members looked deeply disturbed by the time they were all through. "And you say there are people still up there?" the male host asked.

  "Dozens," Katje said grimly. "And we do not know what Von Ratched may have done to them since we run away. He cannot be secret any longer -- the world had to know what he is and what he does. He lives to be secret, to work in shadows. We must hit him with spotlight."

  Ratiri caught sight of some crew member gesturing frantically offstage. The man's aura was brilliant orange, but one didn't need to be able to see it to know how excited he was. Finally he ran out and whispered in the male host's ear.

  "What?"

  More whispering. "Apparently we have a caller," the host said, sounding bewildered beneath his veneer of professionalism. "She says her name is Lorna Donovan. I'm putting her on speakerphone. Lorna, can you hear us?"

  "Of course I can. I'm not bloody deaf."

  The sound of her voice was like music to Ratiri's ears, and he let out a relieved sigh. "Lorna, are you all right?"

  "Sure allanah, it's good to hear you. I'm fine, but it'll be a while before I can really walk on this bloody leg. Listen, I don't know how long I've got before Von Arsehole figures out I've broken into his office, but if you come up here, be careful. The bastard's harder to kill than a goddamn cockroach, and I'm not sure I'll be able to manage it any time soon. He's wounded, but it's not slowing him down much."

  "What did you do?" Katje asked, looking dazed.

  "Stabbed him with a butter knife. I must've missed his lung, and now he won't let me have real utensils."

  The female host choked, and Ratiri smiled humorlessly in spite of his rush of worry. That was Lorna all over.

  "I'll see what else I can do -- oh, shite, I think I've got to --"

  A loud slam overrode her words, and Ratiri jumped. He wasn't the only one, either -- Katje twitched and made a small, strangled squeak.

  "There's no use giving out at me, y' twat." Lorna's voice had gone tinny, as though she'd dropped the phone. "You missed the good part anyway. Everybody knows -- you put that the fuck down, or I'll bite off your other fuckin' ear."

  Something huge crashed, and the shatter of glass overloaded the phone's speaker, right before everything went silent.

  "Shit." Geezer jumped to his feet. "Miranda's gotta get everything --"

  "On it," Katje said, hurrying offstage. Gerald fled after her, leaving Ratiri to put his head in his hands.

  "Not the way I thought this interview would go. With any luck, we can come back with good news. If we're not lucky, we might all die up there."

  "Do you have to go, personally?" the female host asked. Both of them had lost much of their professional masks, for once too startled to retain equanimity in the face of total weirdness.

  "Lorna's out there," he said. "Of course I do. I'll bring her to meet you, if Von Ratched doesn't kill her first. Excuse me." A fleeting part of him felt guilty for abandoning the broadcast so abruptly, but he had bigger things to worry about. He loosened his tie as he hobbled after the others as best he could, and wound up panting by the time he caught up with them.

  "Come on back and get changed," Miranda said. "I've got some choppers on the way, and we'll take off after them as soon as we can. That was some stunt Lorna pulled with the phone."

  "I hope she's not going to pay too dearly for it," Ratiri muttered.

  ----

  Lorna was hoping she wasn’t about to die, but she wasn't counting on it. Goddamn Von Ratched, why did he have to come to this office in the middle of the night? He ought to still be torturing someone, for fuck's sake. Of all the days….

  She'd broken the window on sheer instinct, and frigid, snow-filled air blasted inward and hit her like a slap. Von Ratched completely ignored it -- she'd never, ever seen him this angry. His eyes glittered like a demon's in the flicker of the cracked TV screen, his face a livid white -- if she didn't kill him now, he'd surely kill her. There was little rationality at all in those ungodly eyes, little more than a level of rage she recognized far too well, for she'd felt it so often herself. The mobile phone crunched beneath his foot, useless even as a weapon.

  He lunged for her, but she somehow flailed away, pain shooting through her leg as she scrambled over the back of the couch. She'd had a dose of morphine, but that was hours ago; it was only adrenaline that kept the pain from outright crippling her.

  "How did you get in here, Lorna?" he asked, and she could see he was hanging onto his control by a very thin thread.

  "Telekinesis, dumbass," she said, hauling herself properly upright. Her heart was hammering, her every instinct poised for fight, not flight; if she didn't end this, it would end
her. "You knew locking me up wouldn't work."

  "I drugged you," he said, standing very, very still.

  "Former junkie, remember?" Lorna shot back. "You quit dosing me high enough to do any good days ago. You just won't stop underestimating me, will you?"

  Von Ratched remained still, staring at her. Never had he looked so predatory, and that was really saying something. He didn't seem to notice the cold at all, though she was shivering so hard she thought her bones might shatter. "I have given you so much, and you throw my generosity back in my face at every turn. You are mine, Lorna Donovan, and I think it is time I teach you that."

  But Lorna wasn't really listening. Her focus was on the shattered glass, the slivers that were all that remained of the window. Her telekinesis hurled them at him with all the force she could muster, the shards glittering like hail in the TV's uneven glow. It was safety glass, too blunt to hurt him, but it distracted him long enough for her to try something worse.

  "I'll return your generosity, you twat," she ground out through clenched teeth, and sought his synapses with brute force. She threw every ounce of her own pain at him, every bit of agony real or remembered that she could summon. The cold of the air and the heat of her wrath fed it, the depth of hatred she felt for this monster who dared call himself human.

  To her amazement, Von Ratched actually cried out. Oh, she was hurting him, and she used his distraction to hurl the TV at him. It shattered with a satisfying crash, and she snarled like an enraged animal as she launched herself back over the couch. His throat had a date with her teeth, and this time she'd make damn sure it was fatal.

  She plowed into him so hard she knocked him down, punching his wounded shoulder. Her own injuries ceased to be relevant, their pain shoved aside; she'd be in agony later, but that would be later. For now, she had a job to do.

  Her fingers tore at the stitches in his neck, rewarded by the nauseating, coppery heat of his blood, and she sank her teeth into the scab like a mad vampire. It stuck in her teeth and made her gag, but it wasn't nearly enough to stop her.

  Von Ratched's retaliation, on the other hand, was. She didn't know what it cost him to do it, but he hit her mind with a brick of terrible, all-consuming need, momentarily overpowering her rage. It was only momentary, but it was enough to let him hit her hard enough to send her vision grey, dark sparkles of pain dancing before her eyes. It made a horrible counterpoint to her forced desire, and she lashed out blindly with both her hands and her telekinesis, desperately trying to fight off this torture that was unlike anything she had ever known.

  And it halfway worked. His hold on her synapses ebbed a little, enough for Lorna's fingers to claw along his face, searching for his eyes. Blunt though her nails were, they gouged bloody furrows across his cheeks, and it took her a moment to realize she was laughing -- laughter that sounded mad even to her.

  One of his hands closed around her throat, his fingers so long he only needed one hand, and the dark sparkles were back. Only by kicking him in his bad shoulder did she free herself, and then she was left wheezing, trying to choke down oxygen through a throat on raw fire. She was perilously dizzy, and that gave Von Ratched opportunity to hit her yet again, this time so hard her consciousness took a brief holiday.

  When it came back Lorna found they were in his apartment, which her subconscious had been busy wrecking while her conscious mind was out. The last thing she was aware of, before darkness took her completely, was Von Ratched ripping her T-shirt.

  "Wait--" she tried, and then there was…nothing.

  ----

  Lorna's return to coherence was slow, a gradual, unwilling sharpening of awareness. Her battered psyche tried to remain submerged, but pain dragged her awake.

  'Pain' didn't begin to describe it. The leg and shoulder were a given, but even breathing hurt, her throat scratchy and her right side flaring white-hot when she shifted. Her mouth was dry and sour with the metallic tang of blood, and when she opened her eyes even the dim light was too much. It stabbed straight into her brain like knives of ice.

  At first she had no idea where she even was, let alone how she'd got here. Memory came to her slowly, in small, foggy increments -- her fight with Von Ratched, being dragged off away from the cold -- this was his room. This was his room, and she was fairly sure he'd done something terrible to her, though at least no memory of that surfaced.

  A cautious attempt to sit up sent pain exploding all through her. Lorna ground her teeth to avoid crying out, and even her jaw hurt -- one of her molars had been knocked loose, and she actually felt it crack. Shit.

  She might not remember what Von Ratched had done to her, but the evidence was plain enough. Her T-shirt was torn in half, but her swimming vision found her sweatpants on the floor. Reaching for them was too much effort, but she managed to summon enough telekinesis to pull them to her. Getting them on was a whole other level of difficulty, but she had to. She just…had to.

  Get up, she ordered herself, but oh God she was tired, tired and hurting and cocooned by a mental numbness she feared to disturb. Breaking it, facing reality head-on, would drive her mad. Get up.

  Through some Herculean force of will she managed to rise, though her bad leg almost gave out on her. She wrapped the bedspread around herself before hobbling to the bathroom -- she had a morbid need to see the damage. When she clicked on the light switch, the room was filled with an obscenely rosy glow that made her squint, almost blinding her.

  With difficulty Lorna approached the sink, leaning heavily on the counter while she surveyed her reflection. Bruises in the shape of fingers were already darkening her throat, and her nose had been broken, covering half her face in blood -- some of what she tasted was her own. It was dried now, rusty-brown and flaky; she'd been unconscious for some time, she realized dimly. Her lower lip was swollen and split, pain flaring and ebbing with every beat of her heart, but it wasn't from a punch -- holy Christ, the bastard had bitten it.

  That was enough to make her turn away, stumbling and crawling for the toilet, where she threw up everything she'd eaten in what seemed like another lifetime. She dry-heaved a long while after that, kneeling on the cold tile while her body trembled and her mind retreated deeper into its protective cocoon. Her psyche was a piece of crystal nestled in cotton wool, and she wanted to leave it there.

  Cry, dammit, she told herself. Cry and get it over with.

  But she couldn't. Her eyes dry and burning, all Lorna could do was rest her head against the porcelain basin, shivering as though in deep cold. The only thing she was truly capable of thinking was finding a way to end it. Von Ratched had got rid of all his sharp objects, but there was still the mirror.

  With immense difficulty she hauled herself upright again, and stared at her hollow-eyed reflection. She looked more zombie than human, and with a sudden surge of rage she smashed both her fists into the mirror. It shattered into hundreds of glittering shards, and her fingers closed around the biggest piece she could find.

  No.

  That single word made her pause. It wasn't her own thought, but it certainly couldn't be Von Ratched's. She eyed the glass and her arm, ignoring it, wondering how long it would take her to bleed to death.

  No. If you quit now, he wins.

  "He already won," she muttered, but her abused throat could barely form words.

  He hasn't, and he won't. Not unless you die.

  "Fuck off." Lorna rested the sharpest point of the glass on the inside of her wrist. What was it? 'Down the road, not across the street'? It wouldn't be hard to slice open her whole forearm. She might not even need to do the other.

  And yet she hesitated. There was nothing she could do to Von Ratched, and running away was impossible -- this was the only out she had, but she hesitated nonetheless. Was she really such a coward?

  Who are you in the dark, Lorna?

  "Who the fuck're you, to ask me that?" she demanded. "How dare you?"

  And the world exploded.

  Not literally, although at first it
seemed like the universe had smashed. Searing, blinding light overwhelmed her vision, a roar like a hurricane rising in her ears until it passed into the ultrasonic. All sense of her surroundings, her self, completely ceased, leaving her a being of pure, beaten consciousness. She could feel nothing, could neither see nor hear, but that was a mercy. It meant she wasn't in pain, and right now that was all that mattered.

  When some semblance of coherence returned to her, she found she was no longer in the Institute. She was lying on soft, sun-warmed grass, sweet blades tickling her nose. She rolled onto her back, and opened her eyes to find herself looking at a blue morning sky dotted with puffy clouds. A very faint breeze stirred her hair, which was no longer a snarled mess -- it lay draped over her shoulder in a long braid. The comforter and sweatpants were gone, too, replaced by jeans and a T-shirt. And she didn't hurt here -- she'd been in pain so long she'd forgotten what it was like to be free of it.

  Her mind was still numb, though, still shielding itself from proper thought. Even now Lorna knew that acknowledging it would drive her insane. Warm though it was, she was still shivering, and she curled into a fetal ball, arms crossed over her chest, hating herself for her weakness.

  "Lorna."

  She looked up to find the Lady standing not far from her, those dark sad eyes both gentle and grieving. The power she emanated was somehow comforting, giving strength where Lorna had none.

  "Hardship," she whispered, as the Lady approached. "You call that hardship? Why didn't you tell me?" Raw anguish filled her voice, but even now she couldn't cry.

  The Lady knelt beside her, running a warm, rough hand over her hair. "It would not have helped," she said gently. "You could not have done anything differently, and you would have lived your every moment in dread."

  Lorna shuddered, her entire body racked with dry, heaving sobs. "Do I ever kill him, Lady? Will I ever get revenge?" She was filled with such a depth of shame that only vengeance could ease it. And vengeance equaled murder.

  "That is up to you," the Lady said, still stroking her hair. "You will be given a chance, in time. What you choose will determine what you are to become."