Page 24 of Kill Me

“No problem.” Shit. What the fuck do I do now? “Can I use the bathroom? All the excitement has me feeling like I’m gonna pee myself.”

“Of course, follow me,” Darla says, pointing ahead of herself as I pull my suitcase up the steps. It’s light, so easily done, and it’s glaringly obvious there won’t be any contraband hidden in my suitcase for home comforts. Though, why I still set myself up for disappointment where my mother is concerned is nobody’s business.

Darla opens the front door, which could do with some WD-40 judging by the creaks that come from it. Inside is spacious and sparsely furnished, but directly in front of the entryway is a black double staircase that goes up in the middle before separating either way until it reaches the top. A black and white patterned carpet runner decorates the centre of the steps, with the remainder of the black steps coming out either side. A crystal chandelier adorns the lightbulbs, the speckles of light from where the light interacts with the glass adorning the wall. It’s breathtaking. There are doors along the walls and a hallway directly behind the staircase that looks like it goes towards the back of the house.

It’s bitterly cold inside, and something feels off. Like it’s all for appearances. Everything is a little too perfect.

Darla directs me to a black door on the left of the staircase that’s flanked with plants on either side and a gold handle.

“Please leave your suitcase here in case any contraband has been packed. Including your Kindle.” Richard seems like he will be the fun police.

“Of course.” I give him one of my sarcastic-but-looks-friendly smiles and make my way to the toilet. Once inside, I can see the black, white and gold theme carries on, and I put down the seat cover, making sure it’s clean, before I take a seat.

Harley specifically asked me for a safe word in case I needed him in an emergency, but what constitutes an emergency? If I send him the safe word this time, what if he doesn’t think it’s an emergency and then next time he ignores it? Do I just take the risk?

Fuck it.

Me: Magpie.

Me: MAGPIE.

Me: FUCKING MAGPIE

Me: My parents have somehow managed to gain power of attorney, and they have had me committed to a mental hospital because of my prior suicide attempt—which wasn’t even a suicide attempt. Whatever they’ve been told will have been a lie.

Me: They brought me here for ECT therapy. A therapy I never wanted. I only came because they said it was an initial appointment and I thought I would be able to convince the doctor I didn’t need it. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if you can help me or if you even want to help me, but I’m scared, Harley. There’s something about this place that feels off, like there’s something I’m missing; it’s too perfect.

Me: They’ve said phones are contraband, and once they strip search me, they will find it, so I’m in the toilet texting you this. After this message, I won’t be able to communicate with you.

Me: Please don’t reply, or they will know I have asked for help.

Me: Please, Harley, I’m begging you to help me.

Me:

Once the double ticks show they’re delivered, I delete the messages. Someone starts banging on the door. “Come on, Quinn, we need to finish your intake.” Of course, it’s Richard.

“Coming!”

I stand up, flush the toilet I didn’t use, and turn on the taps in the sink to pretend to wash my hands, the same process as always: soap twice but wash with water four—I know, I know, a terrible waste for the environment. I check my appearance in the mirror. Mascara streaks cover my cheeks, and my eyes are puffy. My baby hairs are frizzing everywhere, and my ponytail is loose, so I section the hair, pull it tighter, and grab some tissue to tidy up my face.

If Harley does come to rescue me, I need to look less like I’m the result of absolute carnage, don’t I?

I turn off the taps, dry my hands and take a deep breath. Opening the door, I plaster the fake smile I’m quickly becoming used to on my face and walk straight into Richard.

“Good, we were about to come in and get you.”

“Why?”

“You won’t know this yet, because we haven’t completed intake, but patients only get five minutes in the bathroom at a time as a safety precaution.”

Internally, I roll my eyes, because clearly this man has never experienced a period poo. There’s nothing five minutes about that.

He leads me through the hallway towards the back of the house. Paint is crumbling off of the window frames and doorways, bits of rubbish and dirt litter the floor. The walls are stained by—is that blood?! Just when I thought my levels of anxiety were diminishing, I see that, and the levels spike through the roof again.

He reaches a door at the back and pulls it open. If I thought the first door needed work, there are no words to explain what this one needs. An exterior light pings on, giving enough light to see where I’m walking, but not much other than that. The back garden is overgrown; weeds come up to my waist, and you can’t see through the trees. There is a dilapidated wooden fence around the sides, with barbed wire on the top and a sign that says, “Electric fence, do not touch.” I’m not sure how a wooden fence can be electric, but the darkness has set in, so I’m limited on the distance I can see.

The exterior light turns off, and I’m engulfed in the dark. I can’t see my hand in front of my face. Darla, who is in front of me, grumbles, “Of course, the light would go off now.” And Richard thinks it’s highly hilarious. “I hope you’re not afraid of the dark, Quinn.”