Echoes (Dance with My Demons #2)

14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Avery

It's around two in the afternoon.

Or… at least I think it is?

I expected to be woken early by some daunting task from Mr. Whittingham. But there was nothing.

In fact… nothing at all.

The bell has rang several times throughout the day, signaling the usual routine. But I've been locked in my room without a single guard or visitor.

No breakfast. No lunch.

Not even any professional appointments.

I've just been purely forgotten.

Nothing is accidental though. I know the staff keep tabs on all of us—they have our schedules mastered to the very second. This is deliberate—it has to be.

They have tried to exhaust me, starve me, dish out punishments and chores… and when that hasn't worked, they have resorted to isolation.

Laughing, I lay back on my bed, staring at the pale ceiling. I should have seen this coming.

What's the best way to torture someone with mental illness? Particularly me—who, according to Dr. Smith—craves validation and attention. You take everything and everyone away from them.

I thought sleep deprivation and hunger were the cruelest forms of torture but I was wrong.

Making someone feel like they are forgotten… worth nothing … alone. Well, that's the whole underlying reason that I'm here. And they are playing that card.

Surprisingly, I don't feel panic though.

Maybe a few weeks ago I would have felt dread and fear. But knowing that there's always eyes on me, I'm not worried. Someone will notice my absence again. And they will come rescue me.

Right?

Okay—I'm not entirely convinced. But after seeing Grey last night, I know that he and Theo care enough to know when I haven't eaten. Somebody will come to my room soon…

The hours continue to tick by and I lose track of the bells. It's only when the sun starts to set outside and I hear footsteps passing by in the hallway that I realize free time must be over.

Do I get a shower tonight?

Denying someone of basic hygiene is also up there on the torture scale. I didn't get one yesterday, and there's a tiny bit of fear that perhaps no one will come rescue me if I smell like a landfill.

Thankfully, a guard does come to grab me for a shower, shoving me in line behind the other girls. A few give me small smiles while others ignore me completely.

We're ushered into the bathroom and I quickly make my way to a stall, desperate for hot water. Stripping out of my dirty clothes, I hiss slightly as the hot water scolds me, also reminding me of the numerous paper cuts on my fingers.

I start to scrub my hair when a guard stops in front of my stall, looking over the shoulder-height door at me.

"White—you have some belongings. Here," he grunts, shoving a plastic bag over the door.

I quickly try to cover myself with my hands, but the guard barely looks at me, walking away as the bag splashes into the water on the floor.

It takes a few seconds for me to process the interaction, before I lean down and examine the bag.

I've never been given a bag in the shower before, and as far as I know, nor have any of my shower companions.

Opening it up, I'm stunned to find there's only one item inside.

A razor.

But it's not a plastic one—it's a proper metal razor.

Confusion washes over me as the water cascades down my back, before slowly, it dawns on me.

They are giving me the tools to kill myself.

They want me to harm myself…

I don't know how to feel. For a brief second, that old desire of escape comes back—the time when I used to dream about joining Paige. I quickly push those thoughts aside.

I'm not that girl anymore. They aren't going to fuck with my head.

I realize that I've been perched down in the shower for too long, our timer about to go off so we can be taken back to our rooms. If I don't do anything, it's unlikely they will just let me take the razor back to the room. But I can't leave it here either. What if the next woman to shower finds it? I can't be responsible for that.

Quickly, I disassemble the razor, carefully plucking the blade out. As the showers turn off automatically, I panic, wondering where the fuck I'm supposed to hide a blade.

We're the unhinged according to Grey. Unpredictable, unstable, wild cards who have fought our entire lives to survive.

Already starting to regret my decision, I grab my towel, drying my body as fast as I can. I grab my change of clothes, taking a deep breath, before carefully placing the blade between my ass cheeks. It's either that or my vagina—and rightfully so, I'd rather cut my asshole instead of slicing off my clit.

Slow steps. Baby movements.

Somehow, I manage to get myself dressed, squatting down with my ass clenched tightly to shove the disassembled razor back into the bag, just in time before the guard swings open the stall door to check on me.

"Part of it fell down the drain," I say quickly, slapping my hand over the drain cover for dramatic effect. "But you can tell Mr. Whittingham that these aren't my belongings." I stand up, shoving the plastic bag into his chest.

The guard scowls at me, grabbing my elbow to pull me out of the stall. I quickly fall into line behind the other women as they head out of the bathroom, doing my best to walk normally.

Please don't fall out…

Oh, please don't fucking fall out.

I hold my breath until I'm back to my room, only exhaling when the door slams shut. Hastily, I waddle to my adjoining toilet, popping my leg onto the seat as I carefully remove the blade in some weird yoga position.

"Thank fuck," I breathe out in relief, holding the blade between my fingers.

I'm not an idiot though. I know that they will check the contents of the bag soon and notice that only the blade is missing. It likely means they will come search for it.

Shit! This means that I have contraband in my room.

That's also grounds for punishment, right?

Pacing around the room, I try to find a decent hiding place. Under the bed is too obvious—same with the desk. Swallowing it is out of the question too.

Kicking off my shoes, I use the blade to pull the inside of the sole up. I slide the blade inside, spitting on the torn section as I try to make it stick together again.

It's the best I can do, and as expected, the guards arrive a few minutes later.

I'm laying on my bed, pretending to look bored as they enter. Keeping my face blank is hard because my heart is pounding so loud and fast that I can barely breathe.

Mr. Whittingham walks into the room after the guards, looking displeased.

"Ms. White," he snarls down at me. "We're here to conduct an inspection."

"Oh?" I feign ignorance, sitting up. "Did you need me to move?"

His eyes narrow briefly on me before snapping his fingers at the guards. Immediately, the three of them spread out across the room, lifting and opening things. One of them rips the mattress off the metal frame, nearly flinging me with it as I scramble to my feet just in time.

I keep my eyes on Mr. Whittingham, fighting the urge to look at my neatly placed shoes by the desk. He watches me carefully, so I glance away, leaning against the wall.

My heart stops completely when one of the guards grabs my shoes, turning them upside down. He gives them a shake, shoving his hands inside.

Fuck.

Fuck me dead in the ground.

I pick a spot on the wall, training my eyes to stay on it. The seconds passing feel like hours, but they throw the shoes on the ground, moving onto the next item.

"There's nothing here," one of the guards tells Whittingham. "Clean."

I glance back casually to Mr. Whittingham. "Is it nearly dinner time?" I ask him.

We both know I'm not going to be eating, but maybe one of these guards are in Damon's pocket and they'll relay this to him. It's a small flare, a cry for help—but only if it lands on the right mark.

"Dinner has already finished," he replies back. "You'll have to wait until tomorrow. Speaking of, I've assigned you a new task in the morning. I'll see you bright and early."

My lips curl at his words. In translation—you won't be having breakfast either.

He stalks out of the room, followed by the guards. The door closes behind them and I wait until the sound of their footsteps fade away before I quickly pick up my shoe.

It actually worked.

I fix up the mattress and blanket on the bed, curling myself on top. Now, I just have to wait and see if my plan worked.

"Avery."

I jolt awake, registering the darkness around me. I don't even remember falling asleep.

My eyes scan the room, checking for shadows to make sure I heard correctly. I spot Damon standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

"Come with me," he says disinterested, disappearing into the hallway.

I don't need to be told twice, springing to my feet as I quickly catch up.

"Did you get my message?" I ask, walking beside him.

Damon glances out of the corner of his eye at me. "And what message would that be?"

I shrug, feeling embarrassed. "I tried to pass a message through the guards."

"Ahh," he says, turning the corner and heading to a locked door past the library. "Yes, that message."

I frown as we walk past the entrance of the hall and library, confused. "Are we not going inside?"

"We're not having a meeting tonight," he answers bluntly.

We stop in front of the locked door, my eyes spotting the access card that he pulls from his pocket. The access pad beeps when he puts the code in, tapping the card. There's a metallic unlocking sound, before Damon pulls the door open, gesturing for me to go inside.

I've never been down this way before, but I quickly realize by the numbers on the wall that these are rooms.

"Where are we?" I ask quietly.

He doesn't bother to lower his voice. "Westwood Wing."

Familiarity creeps into my mind. I look at all the aligning doors and numbers, eyes widening. "This is the male dormitory?"

"Obviously," he sighs, annoyed.

They are identical to the Eastwood Wing, except these rooms start with the number three. We walk to the very end, my eyes immediately finding the only open door in sight. I glance at the number on the wall beside the door— room 301.

It seems fitting that Damon's in room number one, but I don't ponder that thought too long. As I approach the open doorway, I spot a figure sitting on his bed, twirling a knife in his hand, legs folded underneath him.

He looks up at the same time, a fraction of surprise appearing on his face.

"Grey?" I blurt out.

Damon pushes past me into the room, not bothering to facilitate our spontaneous catch up. Grey looks at him expectedly, and I quickly realize, this is a shock to him as well.

"What's going on, Deadman?" Grey asks, putting the knife on top of the bed.

We both look at him—me with uncertainty and Grey with boredom, my nerves getting the better of me as I linger outside the door. I could be seen at any moment, so I step inside, resting my back against his wall.

"It's time to end this," Damon replies casually, kicking his feet up onto the desk as he takes a seat. "Once and for all."