Anything for you
"There's nothing else to remember Lucy." The voice came from behind her, rich deep and velvety smooth, "Only the Asylum. Nothing else."
The words held such a degree of finality, Lucy thought her heart would break, "No! That's not true!"
He smirked at her, "What's your idea of truth Lucy?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous, "It's that flat, isn't it? And the boy with the Mohawk?"
Lucy took a step back, how did he know? How could he possibly know How could he see inside her mind?
He grabbed her by the arm, dragging her, stumbling down the hall, "Let me show you your idea of truth!"
He dragged her down the hall, stumbling over her own feet until they came to a stop at an open door, the room on the other side dark and foreboding.
"Here we are." He sneered, "You want your truth?" he shoved her forward, "Go and get it."
She tiptoed into the darkness, the only sound she could hear over the thudding of her heart, was someone else's ragged breathing, "Who's there?"
"There's not need to be afraid," her tormentor said cheerfully, "he doesn't bite much."
The light snapped on and she couldn't help but cry out in despair, their, strapped into a rickety old wheelchair was a man, with empty hazel eyes, a crooked smirk his hair, roughly shorn into a wild Mohawk. He looked up at her, his eyes crinkling into a smile, puckering the scar at his eyebrow, she thought she saw recognition spark in those hazel orbs but as she edged closer, he began to thrash, snarling and snapping at her like a man possessed.
She reeled back in horror as a word escaped his lips in between his snapping and snarling, "Goose."
Her name wasn't Goose! It was Lucy!
A memory surfaced, cold and terrifying, she was smaller, a child even, encircled by more children, all of them laughing, pointing and laughing. Laughing at her. Why were they were laughing?
Tears prickled her eyes as she heard them chant, "Lucy Goosey, screws all loosey." Over and over, pulling and pushing her back into the middle of the ring every time she tried to escape.
"You remember now?" he asked, stalking forward as the lights went out again, "Your parents sent you here after your little episode at school. You've been here ever since."
He guided her out into the hallway, back to the room with the holes in the door and sat her down on the mattress, her wet clothes were gone. They'd taken her clothes. Why had they taken her clothes? Had they even been there?
"What are you looking for Lucy?" he asked, his tone amused.
"My clothes." She frowned.
"you're wearing them."
"My other clothes." She corrected, "The wet ones."
"There are no other clothes Lucy. Just these ones."
"I was wearing them!"
"No, you weren't." He replied, pinching the bridge of his nose, the only sign of frustration he'd shown, "You've been here since the beginning Lucy. There is no outside. The boy with the Mohawk, Dylan, a side project of yours, you cut his hair into a Mohawk last week with a broken bottle, you were rambling, saying it was the only thing to make him fit."
"This isn't real!"
"You're not well." He said calmly, his hand reaching out for her as she scurried back, pressing herself into the corner, "You're not. I can make it stop Lucy. The pain and the confusion... I can make it stop."
Oh how she wanted it to stop...
His hands were on her, pushing her back onto the mattress, the fog was back, pulsating through the crevices of her mind, blanketing the confusion and the terror, slowing the warring thoughts until there was nothing but a thick white cloud.
Her eyes closed, if only for a second, her mind at peace and then, from somewhere within the blinding light that hid behind her eyes, Dylan's face appeared, was she dreaming? She didn't know. His hands, rough and bloody, grabbed her arms, shaking her, "Wake up!"
YOU ARE READING
Lucy wakes up in the rundown Blackthorne Asylum, a patient among the lunatics, unaware as to how she got there or her life before she opened her eyes. The only things she knows for sure are her name and that she needs to escape.