air against my lips. Black eyes smiling, but the lack of feeling making it as alien as Halliday’s look as... Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall—“Time out.”
My voice cracked, breath now short, sharp; hands clawing at the door.
“Jack—”
“Mercedes.
Mercedes fucking Benz. Mercedes fucking Out
—”
The door finally gave, and someone behind it was pushed aside as I bolted. Shouts followed me, but I didn’t know whether they were mine just trying to catch up with me. Two male orderlies were knocked out of the way as I made it to the fire exit. Twice I nearly broke the bar off that was stopping me from getting out, but twice it didn’t work, and I cried out, needing something to stop the slipping. I could feel life fucking slipping away.
Throwing a fist at the door, then staggering back, holding my wrist, I took the stairs two at a time and tried to hide away from the blackness that threatened to spit me out amongst the debris once it lifted. Whatever was threatening to shake loose, I didn’t want to know.
“Jack?”
Forehead pressed hard against the wall, fingers digging into soft padding, I cried out into the security of the seclusion room, needing quiet, needing control. Sweat pinned my T-shirt to my shoulders and back and I struggled to find the memories on how exactly I’d gotten here.
“Craig,” I murmured quietly, “you really need to fuck off now, mate.” That pull into blackness took any light from the padded room, leaving whispers scurrying in the corners that nearly had me jerking around and looking over my shoulder to try and find them. “Please. Just give me fucking time out. Time out. Mercedes. ’Cedes Benz...”
“Can you feel it coming, Jack?”
“Fuck.” I groaned and pressed my forehead harder into the wall. Halliday. He was there, behind me, not close, just... there, all long limbs, alien feel, strange whispe—“Time out.
Fucking stop
.”
“Who’s whispering, Jack?”
Twice I thumped the wall, twice it hurt like fuck, and twice I cried out hurt.
“If it wasn’t Gray behind sending those videos,” Halliday said quietly. “If it wasn’t Gray responsible for arranging all of the video equipment, the manpower, the money behind setting up a warehouse to make it look like your home setting—if it wasn’t Gray behind Vince’s rape, who does that leave? Who’s been whispering? What are they asking you to do? They’re telling you to—”
“Come and get the spaghetti for me, Jack?”
Jack. Age 18
I looked back towards the kitchen, not catching it at first, then it came again.
“Jack—you listening? Come and get the spaghetti for me.”
Standing next to me now that he’d finished tugging up his fly as he came out from the bathroom, Mase sniggered as he followed my look back to where my old lady had called from. Steve sat in my old man’s chair, seeming to age from twenty-three to fifty in those few moments of claiming it. He was five years older than me and Mase, although he didn’t look it: thinner, almost ghost-like with how pale and thin he was. Mase was the opposite; carrying more of the Italian look than I did, and damn better accent, soft, flute-like in fluidity, but getting close to being fucked over because the words that accent carried were never as sweet or tempting as that tone.
“Go on, then,” he snorted at me, finally managing to stop messing with his fly. “Let’s see what a sweet pussy you are around your old lady, Jacky boy.”
I flicked a look at Steve. It was Cutter’s idea that Mase hang around today. Something to do with Mase’s dad owning a warehouse full of alcohol that distributed to most off licences, and Cutter was all for getting easy access to a job like that, only good ol’ Mase couldn’t see it. Cutter thought it would be interesting to see him hang around with me, said I needed another pet, but as fuckable as Mase was looks-wise, he was nowt but a stepping-stone, and a mouthy shit at that. Steve gave a nervous smile
My voice cracked, breath now short, sharp; hands clawing at the door.
“Jack—”
“Mercedes.
Mercedes fucking Benz. Mercedes fucking Out
—”
The door finally gave, and someone behind it was pushed aside as I bolted. Shouts followed me, but I didn’t know whether they were mine just trying to catch up with me. Two male orderlies were knocked out of the way as I made it to the fire exit. Twice I nearly broke the bar off that was stopping me from getting out, but twice it didn’t work, and I cried out, needing something to stop the slipping. I could feel life fucking slipping away.
Throwing a fist at the door, then staggering back, holding my wrist, I took the stairs two at a time and tried to hide away from the blackness that threatened to spit me out amongst the debris once it lifted. Whatever was threatening to shake loose, I didn’t want to know.
“Jack?”
Forehead pressed hard against the wall, fingers digging into soft padding, I cried out into the security of the seclusion room, needing quiet, needing control. Sweat pinned my T-shirt to my shoulders and back and I struggled to find the memories on how exactly I’d gotten here.
“Craig,” I murmured quietly, “you really need to fuck off now, mate.” That pull into blackness took any light from the padded room, leaving whispers scurrying in the corners that nearly had me jerking around and looking over my shoulder to try and find them. “Please. Just give me fucking time out. Time out. Mercedes. ’Cedes Benz...”
“Can you feel it coming, Jack?”
“Fuck.” I groaned and pressed my forehead harder into the wall. Halliday. He was there, behind me, not close, just... there, all long limbs, alien feel, strange whispe—“Time out.
Fucking stop
.”
“Who’s whispering, Jack?”
Twice I thumped the wall, twice it hurt like fuck, and twice I cried out hurt.
“If it wasn’t Gray behind sending those videos,” Halliday said quietly. “If it wasn’t Gray responsible for arranging all of the video equipment, the manpower, the money behind setting up a warehouse to make it look like your home setting—if it wasn’t Gray behind Vince’s rape, who does that leave? Who’s been whispering? What are they asking you to do? They’re telling you to—”
“Come and get the spaghetti for me, Jack?”
Jack. Age 18
I looked back towards the kitchen, not catching it at first, then it came again.
“Jack—you listening? Come and get the spaghetti for me.”
Standing next to me now that he’d finished tugging up his fly as he came out from the bathroom, Mase sniggered as he followed my look back to where my old lady had called from. Steve sat in my old man’s chair, seeming to age from twenty-three to fifty in those few moments of claiming it. He was five years older than me and Mase, although he didn’t look it: thinner, almost ghost-like with how pale and thin he was. Mase was the opposite; carrying more of the Italian look than I did, and damn better accent, soft, flute-like in fluidity, but getting close to being fucked over because the words that accent carried were never as sweet or tempting as that tone.
“Go on, then,” he snorted at me, finally managing to stop messing with his fly. “Let’s see what a sweet pussy you are around your old lady, Jacky boy.”
I flicked a look at Steve. It was Cutter’s idea that Mase hang around today. Something to do with Mase’s dad owning a warehouse full of alcohol that distributed to most off licences, and Cutter was all for getting easy access to a job like that, only good ol’ Mase couldn’t see it. Cutter thought it would be interesting to see him hang around with me, said I needed another pet, but as fuckable as Mase was looks-wise, he was nowt but a stepping-stone, and a mouthy shit at that. Steve gave a nervous smile
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