Echoes (Dance with My Demons #2)

3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Avery

The sound of gravel crunches under my feet as I stare up at the Lilydale building. My wrists are numb, bloodied and bruised, but I feel displaced, knowing I'm returning to my own personal hell. It feels like déjà vu, my eyes hovering over the pristine white walls.

It's late, the sun long gone to sleep as shadows taunt me, imaginary laughter reminding me why I'm here.

The police officers keep a tight squeeze on me, their fingers digging into my elbows and arms as they practically drag me up the front steps. I'm relishing the thought of being in my room, alone, so I can catch my breath and process the past few hours.

I'm still confused about everything, but at least I'll be safe until morning.

One of the officers pushes the door open, and I'm surprised it's unlocked. I suppose that they are waiting for me, aware of my impending arrival.

Immediately, the familiar smell of roses hits me. But another sense cuts right through it like a knife, my eyes darting up on their own accord.

It's like I'm seeking him out in the dark, like my body just knows .

Grey and Damon are standing in the foyer, their eyes piercing into me. I stumble to a stop, stomach twisting in a violent grip as I stare at Grey.

For a brief second, a look of surprise flashes across his face, but it's gone in an instant—that cold, heartless expression peering back at me. My body feels heavy, like it's tied in knots as I hold his gaze.

"Welcome back, Avery. I'll be seeing you," Damon says in a dark voice, startling me.

The two of them quickly disappear out of sight, my heart racing as I watch the door slam closed behind them. A second later, Mr. Whittingham is standing in his office doorway, frowning.

"Bring her in here."

I yelp slightly as the officers grab me harshly, ripping me out of my thoughts as they drag me inside the office. My eyes notice the state of his desk, and I know that this is where Grey and Damon were minutes ago.

One of the officers shoves me into a chair, looking at Mr. Whittingham for instructions.

"Take them off," he says coldly, picking up soggy pieces of paper from his desk.

Hands roughly grab my wrists, not caring about my wounds, as they uncuff me. I silently rub them, ignoring the stinging pain as I wait for Mr. Whittingham to speak.

"You can go," he directs the officers, motioning to the door.

When it's just us, he throws himself onto his chair, eyes closed as he rubs his temples.

"You're far too much trouble than what you're worth, Ms. White."

"I'm sorry?" I blurt out, unsure if I'm apologizing or just bewildered by his comment.

Annoyed eyes open slowly. Anger, frustration, and a touch of something else I can't put my finger on, stare back at me.

"I trust you've been informed of the conditions of your return," he says, ignoring me and his previous comment.

I nod, remembering my brief chat with Margie before I was escorted out of the police building. They had all watched me leave, disgusted, as if a criminal was walking free. In a sense, they weren't wrong.

"Good," he snaps. "I'll escort you to your room. However, before you leave, I have some further stipulations of my own."

"Such as?" I ask, brows furrowed.

It's already bad enough that I have strict conditions, but now there's more?

Mr. Whittingham stands up, hands flat on the edge of his desk. He glowers at me with a hardened expression.

"You will receive a psychiatric assessment from Dr. Smith tomorrow. If you do not pass, you will be placed in solitary confinement for such time until you're deemed fit to be back among your peers."

I twitch at the word but keep quiet.

"And should you be involved in any further incidents, regardless of innocence , I will personally make sure you never step foot inside my facility again."

"Okay," I whisper. "Anything else?"

"Actually, yes. You can let me know if you hear of any disturbances within the facility from fellow students. And you can keep away from that crowd you seem to have grown attached to. Otherwise, I'll ensure they are promptly removed from Lilydale as well."

My neck stiffens as I observe his face, not entirely sure what I'm hoping to find. He wants me to stay away from who exactly? Grey and Damon? Theo? All of them?

There's only one-hundred patients here—well, ninety-nine now. It's not exactly easy to avoid everyone, even if I wanted to.

I have no idea if he has that much power. It's no secret that there's another ruler of this kingdom, but even kings can be lost in wars.

I'm exhausted—beaten down. I feel the fatigue in every part of my body. It's been a rollercoaster of emotion the past few days—from my personal information being leaked to everyone, to what happened with Theo and Grey, Sam's death, and my arrest. Reflecting on it, it seems likely that I might not pass this psychiatric assessment—now or ever. How does one come back from this?

I can't bring myself to speak, and thankfully, Mr. Whittingham doesn't seem to care. He rounds his desk, hastily motioning for me to follow. I quickly stand, tailing him as I'm escorted back to my room.

As our footsteps echo down the hallway, my mind can't help but wonder what tomorrow will look like. It's eerily quiet—the usual screams from people in their rooms appear to have dissipated, and it sends a chill down my body. With the chaos of today, I expected more. The silence is telling, and that alone scares me.

Standing outside of my door, my eyes gaze over the numbers before I'm pushed inside.

Everything looks the same, yet it feels different.

"Wait," I say, turning to look at Mr. Whittingham at the door. "Do I get my shower?"

The door slams shut in my face, answering the question. Sighing, I trudge over to my bed, laying down.

Despite the consuming weariness threatening my existence, I'm unable to sleep. My eyes watch the door, expecting someone to sneak in at my minute. But as the hours pass, I realize they aren't coming. I'm alone again, just like always.

I should be used to it. That was my entire life, my sole purpose. But now…

Now, it feels like a fate worse than death.

I've barely been asleep for three hours when the door is shoved open, banging loudly against the wall.

I jolt up in a panic, first morning light blinding me as drowsiness intoxicates me.

Through the haze, I spot a guard, hand on the weapon attached to his belt.

"Up," he shouts at me.

Frowning, I stumble up, swaying dangerously. "What's going on?"

We're never woken up this early. And judging by the quiet hallway outside, no one else is either.

"Let's go," he says, grabbing my arm roughly.

I whine under my breath as his fingers leave bruises on my skin, my legs barely mustering up the strength to carry my weight as I'm dragged into the hallway.

As we approach the communal bathroom, relief floods through my chest at the thought of taking a shower. I step into the tiled room, unable to focus on much, when the guard shoves me to the floor.

I manage to catch myself just in time, hands slapping against the dirty floor as my knees cry out in pain. I bite my tongue, sucking in a breath as I do what I do best—keep my pain to myself.

"Clean," the guard orders, throwing a rag down next to my hand.

"What?" I sit back on my calves, looking over my shoulder at him.

He shoves my shoulder with his foot, knocking me forward. "Start cleaning, murderer. Whittingham's orders."

In my sleep deprived state, it takes me a few seconds to process his order. Reluctantly, I grab the rag, digging into the grout on the tiles. The guard scoffs, knocking over a bucket next to me, the contents spilling over my hands and seeping into my shorts.

"With the bleach obviously. The amount of filth you lot bring in is disgusting."

A burning pain sears into my palm and I quickly sit up on my calves, hastily wiping my hands on the front of my shorts. "It's burning," I tell him.

"Too bad. Get moving."

I shuffle away from the pool of bleach, scrubbing the tiles as my eyes scan the bathroom. It's massive—there's no way it's possible for one person to clean the whole room without proper equipment. But I prove that wrong. It just takes an obscene amount of time.

By the time I'm told to stop several long hours later, my hands are red raw and stinging. The guard, who had finally grown bored of his phone, relented, dragging me up from the floor.

"Breakfast time," he grunts, pulling me toward the door.

"I need to wash my hands," I argue but he ignores me, heading straight to the hall.

When I step foot inside, I'm easily the last to arrive. Patients are sitting at tables, eating obliviously—death is normal at Lilydale, so life goes on.

A few people throw glances my way—some pitiful, some angry. It burns a hole in my stomach, my face flushing with panic. The pain of being exposed is still real, coupled now with my arrest. I've had a target on my back since day one, and despite it all, some people here would still love to watch me go down in flames.

"Can I just go back to my room?" I ask the guard quietly.

He huffs at me, shaking his head. Resigning, I slowly walk to the food, barely able to feel the hunger in my numb body. I grab a piece of unbuttered toast, taking a small bite.

My feet start to walk toward my usual table, but I halt, conflicted. I can feel multiple eyes on me, and I do my best to ignore the uncomfortable feeling. But in spite of my best efforts of control, I look up, finding Grey at a table with Damon and their usual crew.

I'm surprised to find him staring back at me, his face void of emotion. Damon looks at Grey to see what has his attention, before turning his head toward me.

I look away quickly. I can't deal with that right now.

Up ahead, I spot Theo at our table, and my heart misses a beat when I find him watching me too. He never normally looks up until I'm in my seat, and there's a small bit of confusion on his face—like he's waiting for me, puzzled as to why I've stopped walking over.

You have to keep away from them…

Whittingham's threat still hangs over my head. I want nothing more than to run to either of them. But I don't.

I take a place against the wall, staring unfocused at the floor as I nibble on toast for the sake of routine. Neither of them approach me—or anyone—and when we're finally ushered out of the hall at the end of breakfast, I'm manhandled again by the guard.

"What now?" I ask through clenched teeth as he squeezes a bruise.

"It's time for your psych assessment," he grunts, pulling me toward Dr. Smith's office.