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They say they’re going to get someone to speak to me. About what? I wonder. They give me drugs, pills that dull and blur my head.
To pass the time I think about you. Your deep brown eyes looking at me. Smiling, welcoming me into your arms. Will you smile now I have disappointed you? Now I have failed in my task?
But I tried, Elijah, I tried. You always knew what I needed. Whether it was a smile, a tube of Smarties, or a squeeze of my shoulder. Or more, once I was older. The guards looked the other way; they gave us space in the visitation room. You knew how I liked it as I begged for more. On my knees on the cold, hard floor. Please.
I would have done anything for you. I still will.
I hear the guards in the corridor. The keys rattle at their waists, heavy from too many biscuits and cups of tea. The slot in the door opens; disembodied eyes stare. They narrow, a look of disapproval I see from everyone.
Even if I were allowed out, I know the other inmates would steer clear. They instinctively know who can be bullied, who should be respected or left alone. For their own safety.
But I hear them whispering. Crazy. Weirdo. Cop killer. That last one with an air of respect, of trepidation.
The slow slam shut of the flap. A shout: “All quiet in cell three.”
They will leave me. Not for long. For about ten minutes or so. But enough.
They’ve taken my bedsheets, my shoelaces, my belt. Anything that might be useful. But they don’t know me. What I can do.
I am used to the blood. To the smell of it; the feel, claggy and warm. The way it dries on your skin, like a protective layer. It is unique to us all; it keeps us alive. Flowing in our veins.
That’s why I kept some from the victims. I had killed them, I owned them. I wanted to keep a piece as I completed my mission.
I lower my face to my forearm. I think of what I did to Adam, how I made him suffer. So he survived, but there’s nothing I can do about that now. No point crying over spilt milk, as Elijah used to say.
It is only blood that is spilling now.
My arm is pale, warm. I run a cold finger down toward my wrist, tracing the soft blue lines, the fragility of my skin. I can almost smell the blood, hear it flowing in my veins. I place my lips against my arm. And then I bite.
The pain doesn’t hit straight away.
At first, there’s the sweet warm taste on my tongue. It flows thick and fast. It fills my mouth, running down my chin as I draw my teeth together, taking a large chunk of my own flesh. I spit it on the floor. My whole arm burns with a searing hot pain. Throbbing, pumping out blood. Tears roll down my face but I ignore them. I must do as you said. Nothing more, nothing less.
I turn my attention to my left wrist. The skin is dry, white, warm. But not for long. I tear at my own flesh with my incisors, making sure I go deep. I chew down to the network of veins and arteries, gnawing until I feel a lump of tissue in my mouth.
I know the job is done.
Even if they find me, there is no way to salvage this. My head is light, my body dizzy with pain. I lie down on the floor, smelling the ever-present disinfectant and the scent of the rage and ache and damage from the women that have come before me.
I have served my purpose. I have done what you asked.
I hear you, for one last time. Coming, you used to say.
But you have gone.
I have gone.
Ready or not.
EPILOGUE
Day 14
Friday
ADAM RINGS THE buzzer next to the gold nameplate on the wall. Three names are listed, all followed by an impressive array of letters. People that know their shit. He hears the answering buzz and pushes the door open, walking through into the quiet lobby. There’s nobody around.
It’s a small room, with two blue armchairs in front of a coffee table. A typed sign is on the wall. “Please Wait,” it says. “We will be out soon.”
