Past
When he caught Ghost trying to help the new girl, Tyler reneged what he assumed was a very generous offer—no sex, just his fingers grazing her groin as he made use of that "very private" vein, the view to accompany the touch. He held out until Brigitte pled her case at the orderly's station one night, a darker desperation in her manner than any of the others—even the junkie whores who had been in rehab forever and a day—ever displayed. Later he found her in her room looking as if she were ready to rip his head off for even suggesting she smile—but when she laid back to let him get on with his business, she was suddenly small and vulnerable again. He almost felt bad for even suggesting the arrangement—almost. When he rose to leave, Brigitte, pulling up her pants again, didn't bother to watch him go. In fact, he lingered in the doorway as she put the toothbrush in her mouth and let the drug invade her system. Watching as she curled into a fetal ball, writhing with something he couldn't decipher—pain? ecstasy?—he almost reentered the room to make sure she was okay. Ghost, still awake and skipping down the hall towards him prevented that, however, and to avoid any probing questions, Tyler made as if he had been finishing lock ups.
The next few days passed uneventfully. Brigitte shunned the company of the other girls, even nosy Ghost, and kept to her room except when forced into some awkward social situation. Ghost attempted, without success, to infiltrate Brigitte's defenses; none of the others seemed willing to try. Tyler, although he had tried to be charming at first, soon realized his efforts were in vain. Her signals were mixed—sometimes her attraction to him was tangible, sometimes her indifference shocked him. She needed her fix, but as provider, Tyler was completely dispensable after the fact. And as much as that rejection pissed him off—what girl in their right mind would not want to do anything and everything for a guy like him?—Tyler found his thoughts settling on Brigitte increasingly as his shifts at Happier Times came and went.
"She didn't realize her mistake," said Ghost one night as she sat in Tyler's booth, compiling a picture of a strange half-wolf, half-woman creature, "Until it was too late and she had slaughtered them all."
"Who's that?" he had asked, peering at the dark hair and black trainers the girl had added to the picture.
"Brigitte," Ghost replied, smiling as she began to add pools of blood at the woman-wolf's feet.
"You're crazy, kid," he said, "And it's past your bedtime."
"He'll be sorry if he goes to see her. She lurks in her den of darkness, the beast waiting to emerge." Ghost cocked her head, smiled, and wandered off towards the dormitory. He watched her stop and peer through the window to Brigitte's room on the camera, the girl's expression filled with curiosity. Suddenly Ghost skittered away from the door, turning back to frown repeatedly in Tyler's general direction as she walked. Once the girl turned the corner, Tyler rose. He made his way quietly to Brigitte's door and copied Ghost, trying to discern shapes in her darkened room, but all he could see was deep, brooding black.
If Tyler were superstitious or concerned about Ghost's third-person rants, he might have heeded the girl's warnings and not gone back to see Brigitte. The next night, however, she appeared at his station again, arms folded tight against her body.
"I'd like you to visit me tonight. Please." she said in a strained whisper. Tyler mentally reviewed the contents of his stash—he still had a few vials of Brigitte's purple drug among the more mundane substances in which he dealt.
"We'll see. I am very busy." He smiled as he said this, holding up the magazine he was reading, just to see the grimace on her face at the double entendre. She replied in tones laced with venom, glancing at the other girls passing the station.
"It's exhausting, I'm sure."
Tyler shrugged and flipped the page, lowering his eyes to the text.
"Look…" she began, but he cut her off.
"Don't wait up," he stated, glancing at the security camera as Beth Ann sauntered by, sneering at Brigitte as she passed. "It may be late."
Brigitte frowned.
"Fine."
She made her way back down the hall to her room.
It took him an hour to make a detour to the basement during his rounds, after getting rid of the ever-present Ghost for the night. He checked to make sure the girl hadn't gone searching through his stuff again, but everything seemed in place. Beth Ann was impatient for her allotment of cocaine and copulation when she let him into her room, tugging on his waistband like a giddy schoolgirl.
"Did you miss me?" she asked playfully, but Tyler was suddenly not in the mood for her silly pseudo-affection.
"Of course," he said, smiling, "But I've got other people to see tonight, and you wear me out, baby." Slightly miffed, she took a quarter her normal dose on credit. Tyler felt no remorse as he locked Beth Ann back into her room, relishing the lie. Every girl at Happier Times hovered somewhere within his power-sphere, to do with as he pleased—all except Brigitte. In time, Tyler thought, all in good time.
He wandered back to Brigitte's room, checking his watch as he arrived at her door—it was already after 1 AM.
He entered quietly, expecting her to jolt at the slightest sound. Instead, she lay shivering on the bed facing away from him, in the throes of a troubled sleep. He moved closer, unsure of whether to wake her with a word or a touch, when her muscles tensed and she flew up in a state of panic, growling and ready to launch from the bed at the intruder.
"Woah, woah! Brigitte, it's just me!" Tyler staggered back towards the door, but her face slackened and she drooped, sinking back onto the bed after the sudden rush of adrenaline.
"Christ. You scared me."
He watched her watching him—the fight against addiction was slowly but surely draining her.
"Withdrawal's hitting you pretty hard, huh?" he asked, wheeling the chair over to the bedside.
"You might say that." Her hands moved to push down the waistband of her pajamas. Tyler, his buried conscience suddenly reemerging from beneath his corrupt pile of deeds, placed his hand over hers on her abdomen, stopping her.
"Tonight's a freebie," he said quietly, "Come on, sit up."
"I didn't think you did freebies." She sounded surprised as she managed to rise, then her words sunk into sarcasm.
"What about 'there must be consequences to our actions or there is no order' and all that bullshit?"
"I didn't figure you'd complain about my change of heart. If that's the case…"
"No, no," said Brigitte, presenting her scarred arm, "I'm not complaining. But I find it hard to believe someone of your…nature…altered your morals so abruptly."
Tyler smiled.
"I'm glad you have such faith in me. I'm not the total asshole you think I am, Brigitte. Although," he added, "Using these tracts so often will only make them worse. They must…" he said, lightly pressing the bruised skin and eliciting a hiss of pain, "…hurt."
"Yeah," she muttered, watching as he tapped the needle, "They're good reminders."
"Of what?"
"My past—my present. It's all been one fucked up mess, and this," she said, gesturing to the horizontal slices along her forearm, "this is just the icing on the proverbial cake."
Tyler might have replied, but reassuring mantras suddenly seemed inappropriate. He injected the monkshood into her vein, trying to be as quick and gentle as possible, although her face indicated little success. Brigitte lay back down, gripping the edge of the bed.
"I can't be here."
"I know, I know, people are gonna die," said Tyler, smirking as he placed the needle back in the bag.
"You don't know," she growled through clenched teeth, "You have no idea."
Tyler got up and wheeled the chair away, turning to see her writhing about just like before, the toothbrush barely keeping her from biting off her own tongue. This time he did cross back to the bed, only to have her wave him away, a wild terror in her eyes.
"Goodnight Brigitte." He obeyed, only allowing his gait to falter for a moment when he heard her stifled scream from behind the locked door.
He did not see her again until another three days had passed, her appearance increasingly disheveled and strange. Her stringy hair hung limply around her gaunt, hollow-cheeked face and her arms appeared skeletal—she wasn't eating much of the food they brought her, and although Alice had threatened a feeding tube, Brigitte still threw most of her meals in the garbage. Her eyes burned as she stood and waited for verbal acknowledgement. He took his time studying her distressing countenance.
"Yes?"
"Please," was all she said, catching his eye, before disappearing as abruptly as she had arrived at his station.
Beth Ann, after working off her debt to Tyler's satisfaction two days before, was ready, awaiting him in her room, to do as he pleased again. Young, eager and willing as always, she almost threw a book at him when he told her he'd have to pass.
"Fuck Tyler," she crowed, "I need my stuff. What the hell are you doing anyways?"
"The usual business," he stated, tossing her a full vial of crack.
"You fucking anyone else like you fuck me?" Beth Ann knew he dealt with most of the other girls to varying degrees, but she sat there stroking the capsule, obviously feeling threatened.
"Only you, baby." He went to the door, rolling his eyes when she couldn't see them.
"That shit's potent—make it last," instructed Tyler, before slipping back into the corridor.
He found Brigitte crouched on her windowsill, watching the distorted shape of the full moon from behind the double glass panes. She was whispering something, but whether she was merely thinking outloud or speaking to herself was unclear.
Tyler cleared his throat.
"I need a bigger dose." She slid down from her perch. She wasn't shivering, but her movements seemed carefully controlled as she stated this from the other side of the bed. Taking his customary seat, he patted the mattress next to him, but she made no move to comply.
"I don't think you can handle what you're getting now," said Tyler, taking out the vial full of purple liquid, "You've OD-ed before, and that's what landed you in here."
"Among other things," she murmured.
Tyler reached out and helped her onto the bed, where she reclined almost sedately.
"There's no more, is there?" she asked in a whisper.
"There's always more," said Tyler, edging her pants down past her hips. When his fingers grazed her groin, however, she grabbed the hand that held the needle by the wrist.
"Brigitte…"
"Don't fucking lie to me," she snarled, "This is it, isn't it? I cannot be here Tyler…I cannot be here."
"Christ, let go!" Her nails clawed into his unmarred skin, but when he cried out she merely dug deeper, her eyes boring into his, demanding any response.
"Alright—yes! There's no more, okay?"
She dropped his hand, which he drew back towards his chest, flexing it. She hadn't drawn blood, just made several gouges in his wrist, around which the skin now stood pink and inflamed.
"Fuck. That hurt."
"Sorry," she mumbled, settling back again to wait.
Tyler hesitated.
"Look, I am sorry. I'm just," Brigitte said, "I don't know what's wrong with me, okay? All I know is I need my stuff, or a few scratches are going to be the least of your problems."
"Are you threatening me?" Tyler slowly rolled the chair out of her reach.
"Yes…no. Okay, maybe. But I do need it. Why else would I be so upset that it'll be gone after tonight?"
"I guess I'm the one that should be sorry," he said, flicking the needle for good measure before finding the vein.
Tyler took no pleasure in injecting Brigitte this time, although he noticed her hair had started to grow back thick and bushy where a week ago it had been smooth. Access to a razor would likely never be one of Brigitte's privileges, considering the scars that lined her arms, although Tyler figured he could always offer to shave her legs, among other body parts. The fuzz on her abdomen helped reassure Tyler that Brigitte was real, not some apparition from one of his weirder fantasies. He couldn't help but run his fingertips up to her belly button, feeling the taut muscles beneath the skin. She made no immediate move to repel his touch, so he let his fingers travel up and underneath her shirt.
After clawing the shit out of my hand, she owes me, he thought.
Her breathing started getting choppy as the drug invaded her system, prompting her to stop his roaming hand just short of her breasts.
"You should've done your exploring before you gave me the monkshood," she said, and reluctantly he helped her get her pajamas back up around her waist as she grabbed the old toothbrush from her bedside table.
"Next time," Tyler said, convinced he could pawn off some other substance on Brigitte to get the taste he craved.
"You know there won't be a next time." She shoved the toothbrush between her teeth. She tried to shoo him away, but Tyler inexplicably remained rooted in the rolling chair, watching her.
"Get out," she managed to growl, but Tyler just shook his head.
"I'm staying put. We're not done here."
Brigitte rolled her eyes in exasperation. She tried to kick the chair away from the bed, but her coordination failed as the drug found its way to her muscles. Tyler, sitting just out of reach, heard a sickening crunch as Brigitte's back arched away from the bed.
"What the…"
The toothbrush had fallen from Brigitte's mouth, and now she was gasping and clenching her teeth alternately, her face red and her eyes bloodshot. Her hands clung and released the covers in spurts and her entire body writhed on the bed.
"This is not..." began Tyler, but at that moment Brigitte's mouth opened wide. From her throat issued a cry unlike anything he had ever heard—a low howl of pain that echoed through the room. Then she gasped again, her limbs slackening, as she slumped into sudden unconsciousness.
"Fuck," Tyler muttered, reaching down to place his fingers on her neck, checking her pulse. As he counted the beats they began to slow, and Brigitte began to stir. She gazed up at him confusedly at first, until recognition stole over her paled face.
"Come on," he said, standing, "I'm taking you to the infirmary."
"Fuck you," she said, "It won't do any good. You had your fun, watched me trip, now get out."
"Some fucking trip," Tyler laughed disbelievingly, "Let's go. Come on."
Brigitte lay still. She turned her head to the side, staring out the window, listening to something Tyler could not hear.
"Brigitte, let's..."
Then Tyler noticed the panes of glass. They were shaking in the sashes, rattling almost inaudibly.
"Oh fuck," was all Brigitte could say, before a monstrous grey mass hit the window with a resounding crash.
Brigitte jumped off the bed, and grabbing Tyler's arm, pushed him towards the bathroom. Cringing as the form rammed against the shatterproof glass, Tyler ducked inside. Brigitte forced the stubborn bathroom door closed. Searching for a lock that wasn't there, she hit the door with her fist just as the force struck the window again with renewed strength. She collapsed against the door, tears in her eyes. Tyler cowered unflatteringly behind the sink.
"What the fuck is that? Huh?" Tyler yelled over the increasing cacophony.
Brigitte, pressing her ear to the door, didn't answer.
A howl, long and low and almost identical in nature to the strange sound Brigitte had made moments ago, reached Tyler's ears. Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the banging ceased. The howl, however, hung in the electric air like a haunting melody, refusing banishment from Tyler's minds as all his thoughts danced around it.
"What…what was that?" he asked Brigitte again, not sure if she was ready to give a reply. She looked into his eyes and the unregulated fear shining within her own frightened Tyler almost as much as the attack. He had seen her desperate and guarded and disgusted, but not afraid—sitting there, she clung to her black journal, which she must have plucked from nightstand just before shoving him into the bathroom. The pages were coming loose, and peeking out from between the leaves was a Polaroid of Brigitte and another girl—a red head—staring in defiance at the camera.
Tyler repeated his question a third time.
"Brigitte, what was it?"
Brigitte dipped her head, her fingertip running back and forth along the edge of the photograph.
"The reason," she whispered, "That's the reason I can't be here."
After fifteen minutes of silence, both inside and outside of the bathroom, Brigitte, clearly shaken up, stated,
"It went away. You should go check on the others now. It might have scared them."
Tyler didn't argue until he had gotten up and moved to the door. He noticed that Brigitte, who had scooted beneath the sink, her knees folded with her chin resting on them, did not intend to leave the tiny room. There were no shades on the wall encompassing windows around her bed—no way to forget the horrific barrage other than to stay hidden in the bathroom until daylight dissolved the darkness.
"Are you okay?" he asked, and surprisingly Brigitte replied in civil tones.
"Probably never will be again," she said, shaking her head, "But you really should make sure everyone's not freaked out. And check that all the outside doors haven't been battered off their hinges."
"Right."
Tyler, opening the door a few inches, peered at the window where the form had struck. The glass had held despite the force of the attacker's blows, but had streaks of blood smeared across the panes, mingling with the frost that had formed along the seams. He stepped carefully out.
"Can you toss me a pillow?" Brigitte asked, and he complied, watching as she curled into a fetal position on the tiled floor, the pillow beneath her head.
"Please close the door before you leave." It was a simple request, but Tyler couldn't let it rest at that.
"Brigitte," he said, and she shifted her head to look at him, "We're not…This isn't over. I'm coming back, drugs or no drugs."
Brigitte sighed, closing her eyes.
Slowly swinging the door closed, Tyler heard her reply when only a thin sliver of light remained through which to see her tiny form.
"I know," she said, and then the door clicked shut.
Tyler heard the murmur of voices traveling from underneath other doors before he had even locked Brigitte back into her prison. He trod quietly, listening to the whispers.
"I think it came from that new chick's room." That was Koral, the chunky Asian girl—not much to look at but good for the occasional blow job.
"Brigitte? What the hell are they doing in there? I heard the drug dealer go in, like, an hour ago." Winnie—the ditz who, despite the effort he spent procuring her drug of choice and trying to charm her pants off, had never accepted his advances. He had her under his thumb just the same—she was terrified of the male orderlies, so at least some of the shit she spilled in group seemed to be true.
"Stupid bitch. I should've known that's where he was hurrying off to when he threw some fucking crack at me and told me to 'make it last.' She threw me up against the fucking wall two days ago—can you believe that?" And, of course, Beth Ann.
"You probably," said Tyler, loud enough for them all to hear, "Deserved it."
"Hey, Tyler," said Koral, "What was that sound?"
"Something crashed into Brigitte's window—it might have been a jumped-up deer or something."
"No," whispered Winnie, "Not that—what was that weird noise?"
"What noise?"
"The fucking howling," said Beth Ann. She stared dangerously at him through the little window in her door.
"I doubt you're that good a fuck, honey," she sneered, "At least you never made me howl."
"We don't have wolves around here, do we?" Winnie's voice took on a frantic pitch.
"Just calm down, all of you," Tyler ordered. "No Winnie, we do not have wolves around here. And I was not fucking Brigitte, Beth Ann—not that it's any of your goddamn business who I fuck any way." She grimaced, tossed him the middle finger over her shoulder, and then disappeared around the corner.
"Go back to bed, ladies," he said, and waited to hear their sullen footsteps retreating further into their rooms.
He knew the outside doors were double bolted and impossible to break through, but Tyler checked each one just the same. He didn't risk returning his stash to the basement, just opened the steel door for a fraction of a minute to slide the case out of sight, relocking it hurriedly. He considered sliding one of the desks over and in front of the door, but stopped and shook his head as he was about to begin this silly action. The fear in Brigitte's eyes had caught him up for an adrenaline ride, and he hadn't found his way back down yet.
Nevertheless, when he passed her room again minutes later he almost slipped back inside, inquired if he could make her more comfortable on that cold bathroom floor, but it was late and Marcus would be arriving soon to take up his own station down on the long-term care end of the clinic. Tyler's business with Brigitte could wait until the following evening, or so he hoped. Recalling the otherworldly howl that had escaped her mouth, later echoed by the window-bashing mass of grey, Tyler was glad when, at six AM, he found the welcome sun beating down, unobstructed by clouds, upon the stark landscape.