Page 26 of Kill Me

“My name is Richard, and I think it’s time you showed me some respect.” His hand fists my hair, and Darla gasps.

“Rich, at least give her a chance to settle in before you bring out the big guns.” Darla’s tone is jovial. Obviously, she’s just as complicit as he is.

“Oh, don’t worry, Darl, she’s not seen the big guns yet.”

The sting from his fist in my hair has my scalp on fire. I struggle to free myself, but it’s no use; it just turns the sting into pain. He pulls me up the steps onto the porch of the broken-down building. “Now, we usually give our patients a twenty-four-hour settling-in period, but since you like to run your mouth, I’ve decided you’re not eligible for that offer. Now, move.”

He pushes me through the door, and inside I’m choked by a layer of dust particles dancing through the air and a hallway only lit by candlelight.

“What is this? Medieval times?”

“I told you, it’s back to basics. Electric and hot water are a privilege here. They must be earned. Your room is down here and to the left.”

“So the front of the property is just for show?”

“No, the front of the property is where we stay. It’s lived in. It’s functional, and patients that earn it can eventually live there. But they always start here. The only way to learn appreciation is to have nothing to appreciate.”

“You should look into that one day, buddy.”

I walk down the hallway, taking in the little I can see. There’s no furniture, just broken picture frames still hanging on the wall. We reach my room—if you can even call it that—and I realise I don’t have a door.

“Where’s my door? I need privacy. I’m a woman.”

“Privacy is a privilege you have yet to earn, Quinn.”

He pushes me inside, and I’m shocked by what greets me. It’s no better than a prison cell. The walls are cinderblocks, there’s a pane of glass missing from my window, and you’ve guessed it: blood is my only wall decoration. On the floor behind the door is an old broken palette posed as a side table and a kerosene lamp on top, lit but clearly running low on fuel. Shadows bounce along the walls as each of us moves.

“This can’t be hygienic.”

“Hygiene is a—”

“Privilege. Yeah, I got it.”

“Good, maybe we will get along after all.”

On the floor is a green rubber mat. A pathetic attempt at a bed for anyone, but a fat woman with chronic pain? The definition of Hell on earth. There’s a grey steel wool blanket and a cushion that would barely fit my head on it, let alone for me to be able to turn over in my sleep. I reach over to pick up the blanket, and sensory overload spreads through my body so fast I drop it. Textures overstimulate me so much that sometimes my brain short circuits and it’s easier to not use those things than it is to grin and bear it. So, it’s safe to say, I’m probably gonna end up with pneumonia while I’m here. A chest infection for someone with barely any immune system and immune to antibiotics? Good job, I like rollercoaster rides.

Richard picks up my suitcase and drops it onto the rubber mat, unzipping it and emptying its contents onto the dirt floor. Well, at least we might be able to build up the old immune system here, hey?! Dust particles fly through the air and into my nose; a clear line where the suitcase has imprinted in the dust is visible. He rifles through my clothes, picking up my underwear and almost admiring it in the dimmed light. If I were a betting girl, I would bet he was fighting against his impulsive thoughts to sniff it. Fucking pervert.

“Time to strip, Quinn,” Richard declares.

“I’m not stripping in front of you.”

“Well, then I guess we can do this the fun way.”

He stalks towards me and images flicker through my brain. Darkness. Bushes. Tools. Bright lights and voices. Familiar voices. The smells from a car garage thickening at the back of my throat. Just as quickly as they come, they stop. And then I’m confronted by his hands on my body, trying to tear off my clothes.

“Stop it! Fine! I’ll do it myself!”

He takes a step back but stays within touching distance. My mind is racing, trying to think of ways I can conceal my phone and my body from his beady, swollen eyes. It soon becomes obvious I have no hope. Even Darla is turning away. At least one of them has some respect.

I undo my trainers, toeing them off one at a time. “Am I allowed to keep my socks on?”

“Those socks are permitted. You will be issued a uniform tomorrow with other items that are up to standard. You will have no need for trainers while you are here as you won’t be leaving the grounds...”

“What? Not at all? I need shoes. If I don’t have shoes to wear, the germs. They’ll make me sick.”

He ignores my question. “That’s why I left you the socks. I was being nice. I can change my mind if you want me to?”