The blood tasted bitter in my mouth, metallic and thick, coating my tongue. I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to spit it out, and glared up at the man who had just thrown his fist into my face. He stood over me, his chest heaving slightly, a smug expression twisting his sharp features. His dark grey eyes gleamed with satisfaction, lips curled into a sneer as he took in my crumpled form. Built like a wall, with thick arms and broad shoulders, he radiated the kind of power he clearly reveled in. His fists were still clenched, knuckles bruised from the many impacts, as if daring me to provoke him again.
Suppressing the urge to wince, I shifted to stand. My body screamed in protest, but I forced myself to straighten, leaning heavily against the cold wall for support. The coarse surface bit into my back through my shirt, grounding me just enough to keep the world from spinning. He turned his back on me without a word, his arrogance apparent in the casual way he walked away, boots thudding heavily against the tiled floor.
The heat of humiliation rose in my cheeks as he left, but I swallowed it down. This wasn't the first time I'd been beaten, and honestly, his wasn't bad compared to others. He was just a bully, picking on the "new kid."
One of his friends, a tall, lanky guy with greasy dark hair, cast a glance back at me. His eyes flickered with something akin of pity and amusement, but he said nothing. I couldn't remember his name, or any of their names really. It didn't matter. I wouldn't be in this wretched place for much longer.
I pushed off the wall and started the slow, painful walk back to my shared room. Every step sent sharp jolts of pain through my body, the bruises already forming under my skin. My ribs ached where his elbow had caught me earlier, and the lingering taste of blood stuck to my tongue like a curse.
When I finally reached the room, I was relieved to find it empty.
The small, dingy space wasn't much, but for now, it was mine.
My bed sat in the far corner, the thin mattress sagging in the middle, and a small bedside table stood next to it. The barred window offered the barest glimpse of sunlight during the day, but now it was just a shadowy outline. My clothes were piled under the window, as were my roommate's. I hadn't been here long, just under a week truly, but it already felt like a lifetime.
Moving slowly, I made my way to the bedside drawer, my movements deliberate, as if anything sudden might shatter what little strength I had left. I pulled out a worn cloth I kept there and pressed it gently against my split lip. The blood soaked into the fabric, the sting sharp and biting, but I welcomed it. The pain was grounding, something to focus on that wasn't the rage simmering beneath the surface. I dabbed at my lip carefully, watching in the cracked mirror across the room as the blood smeared, leaving faint red streaks on my skin.
I stared at my reflection. The swelling was already starting around my jaw, a bruise forming beneath my left eye. I nearly dreaded lifting my shirt to check the damage to my ribs. At least they didn't feel broken.
I sighed and looked away, tossing the cloth onto the bed. It wasn't the first time I'd taken a hit in this place, and it probably wouldn't be the last. I let out a slow breath and tried to relax into the silence. At least here, in this dingy little room, I was alone. For now.
Footsteps echoed down the hall, and I prayed silently that it wouldn't be my roommate. She wasn't due back so soon, but this place had a way of surprising you.
The door swung open with a sharp creak, breaking the fragile quiet.
It was her.
Fuck.
I looked up just in time to see Rosalie stride in, not bothering to knock. She never did. Her sharp blue eyes immediately zeroed in on me, taking in the bruises, swollen lip, and the bloodstained cloth.
"God," she said, her voice dripping with irritation as she crossed her arms over her chest. "You look like shit."
I gave a dry laugh and went back to dabbing the blood still dripping from my chin. One of my teeth had punctured my lip on the first hit, and it wouldn't stop bleeding.
Seeing me struggle, Rosalie paused in her movements, eyes flicking from my face to the mess of blood on my shirt. Her annoyance filled the room like a storm cloud, her perfectly sculpted features twisted in a mixture of disdain and frustration. Even in this dismal place, Rosalie always looked immaculate. Her long blonde hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, her sharp cheekbones and full lips framing a face that seemed untouchable. She carried herself with an air of superiority, like this place couldn't touch her and in some ways, I envied her for that.
I sighed, wiping at my lip one more time before meeting her gaze. "Had a little run-in with some friendly locals. Nothing to worry about. You should see the other guys."
She rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed by my attempt at humor, and stepped closer, crossing her arms tighter over her chest. She bent slightly at the waist, inspecting my face with the sharpness of a surgeon, her blue eyes flicking over every bruise and cut.
Rosalie sighed again, this time more deeply, as if annoyed by the inevitable. She moved toward the small sink in the corner of the room, grabbing the cloth from the bed on her way. The water sputtered before coming to life, and she ran the cloth under it, wringing it out with an exasperated twist of her wrist.
"You're hopeless," she muttered under her breath as she turned back to me, clearly irritated that she had to patch me up.
"Hold still," she ordered, stepping in front of me. Her movements were brisk and efficient but not exactly gentle. She pressed the damp cloth to my lip, the sharp sting making me wince. Her pale fingers moved quickly, dabbing away the blood with an almost clinical precision. Despite her obvious frustration, her hands were steady, though I noticed the faint remnants of chipped pink nail polish on the tips of her nails.
"I swear, Bella," she continued, her voice clipped, "you're like a magnet for trouble. Do you even try to avoid it, or do you run into every fist you see?"
I flinched slightly as she pressed a little too hard on a particularly sore spot, and she huffed in annoyance. "I'm not exactly going out of my way." I muttered, trying to keep the sarcasm light.
"Tch." She shot me a look, her tone still sharp but not entirely heartless. "I didn't come in here to patch you up every time you get yourself beat up."
Her eyes flicked to mine for a moment, and beneath the irritation, there was something softer, concern, maybe. But she quickly shook it off, focusing back on cleaning the cut.
"You should learn how to take better care of yourself," she grumbled, though the fact that she was already doing just that for me didn't go unnoticed.
"I'll get right on that," I said dryly.
Rosalie pressed the cloth to my lip one last time, with a little more force than necessary, and I winced, leaning back to push her away.
"I get it," I said, holding up a hand in mock surrender. "I'll be more careful."
"You better," she replied, raising an eyebrow as she tossed the cloth aside.
I collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to climb under the covers. The winter chill seeped into the room, but I didn't mind. I welcomed the cold as Rosalie climbed into her bed, her movements graceful even in the dim light. Lord knows where she went every night, but it couldn't be anywhere good.
The night felt endless, and I was grateful to finally step into the sad excuse of a lunch hall the next morning. I grabbed a bowl of whatever questionable slop they were serving, frowning at the slightly orange colour, and found my usual spot on the large windowsill overlooking the grounds. It was a bleak view with tall, imposing brick walls surrounded the entire compound, each topped with black barbed wire that coiled like serpents. Mist settled on the wet grass, curling across the small parking lot to the front doors. The only way in or out was a single road that led to heavily guarded metal gates. Above them, in bold, swirling letters, the sign read "Stone County Lunatic Asylum." It was old and faded, with some of the letters missing sections.
I averted my gaze from the depressing sight and shifted my attention to the other patients, as I often did. Most of them sat huddled together in cliques, heads down, muttering to each other or simply staring off into space. I hadn't befriended anyone here. The closest I had was Rosalie, and even then, I wasn't sure if I could call her a friend.
She patched me up when I got into trouble, told me off when she was irritated, and occasionally, there was an odd comment of concern buried in her harsh words. But it was the most meaningful connection I had in this place.
Leaning my head back against the cold, painted brick wall, I closed my eyes for a moment. The murmur of the hall was a constant low hum of voices and shuffling feet, but it offered no comfort.
The double white doors to my right suddenly swung open, snapping me out of my thoughts. I glanced over as an orderly walked in, his short black curly hair tucked neatly under his cap, his expression neutral as he surveyed the room. He was rather large, purely muscle. Trailing behind him was someone new, a woman with short with spiky hair that jutted out in every direction. She looked like she'd rather be six feet under than here. Her posture was tense, eyes darting around the room as if she were already calculating an escape. She walked with a defeated air, her shoulders sagged.
For a brief moment, our eyes locked. Her dark brown orbs widened in surprise, a flicker of recognition flashing across her face. I didn't know her, but something about that look struck a chord. She quickly averted her gaze when the orderly instructed her to grab something to eat and sit with the others.
I watched her move through the crowd, eyes down now, her steps tentative. The hall had quieted slightly, the other patients casting curious glances in her direction, though no one approached her. She seemed to prefer it that way, keeping to herself as she grabbed a tray and sat at the farthest empty table.
Rec time was after breakfast, but for now, everyone was focused on their food, if it could even be called that. I stared at the newcomer, feeling a strange pull of curiosity.
She kept stealing glances at me, and after several minutes of this I huffed it began to really bother me, so I climbed to my feet then approached.
"Was this the first time you had come into contact with Miss Cullen?"
I sighed, rubbing my forehead in frustration while looking at Detective Mason. I had been sitting here for nearly an hour, recounting every detail I could remember. I had already gone over this first part several times, trying to piece it together correctly, though some of my memories were still hazy.
"Yes, it was," I replied, my voice weary. The detectives exchanged a glance before one of them scribbled something in the notebook on the table. I couldn't see what they wrote, but I noticed a line being drawn to a note already made. They turned back to me with the same unreadable expressions.
Detective Whitlock pulled out another cigarette, stepping away to light it. He paced the side of the room, the flicker of the lighter casting a brief glow across his face. His footsteps echoed softly on the tiled floor, his mind turning over what I had already revealed.
"Carry on Miss Swan." Detective Edward said, urging me to continue.
"So, as I was saying before I was interrupted."
I made it to her table in a matter of seconds. She paused, the spoon halfway to her lips, and stared at me like I'd just grown two heads.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice calm but edged with curiosity.
"What is your problem?" I demanded, leaning over the table. She dropped the spoon, her eyes seeming to darken as a slow smile crept across her face.
"Nothing at all, Bella. I'm just trying to eat, and you clearly have something you want from me, so why don't you go ahead and say it."
I chuckled under my breath. What the hell was she talking about? Why would I want anything from her? Crazy bitch.
I shrugged and shoved her tray to the side, leaning in closer.
"Stay the fuck away from me, you hear? I won't be so nice about it next time." She nods, grabs her tray and goes back to eating the gruel she was kindly offered. I roll my eyes, kicking a chair out of the way as I head out of the room. The orderly who'd brought her in cast me a glance and followed me out. I flipped him the bird and walked down the hall, dodging a few of the patients they were using as cleaners.
"Bella, wait!" he called out, his voice echoing off the cold, tiled walls. I chuckled, coming to a halt and leaning against the rough brick wall just outside the lunchroom. The sharp tang of disinfectant mingled with the faint aroma of overcooked meat and stale bread, a reminder of the place's sterile, unwelcoming atmosphere.
The lunchroom itself was a dismal sight. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a harsh, clinical glow over the rows of long, metal tables and benches. The trays of food lined up in the serving area were barely recognizable as meals, their unappetizing appearance a testament to the kitchen's lack of concern for culinary quality. The clatter of utensils and the low murmur of voices filled the space, punctuated occasionally by the shrill clang of a dropped tray or the sharp reprimand of a staff member.
I could hear the shuffling of feet and the occasional loud, obnoxious laughter from the group of inmates gathered at one end of the room. Their conversations were a mix of gossip and grumbling, punctuated by the clinking of plastic cups and the soft thud of trays being set down.
Leaning against the wall, I thought about the dark-eyed brat and her annoying presence.
The hallway outside was just as bleak, with peeling paint and flickering lights that created an unsettling, strobe-like effect. The smell of industrial cleaner was strong here, a constant reminder of the effort to mask the underlying stench of sweat and neglect.
"What do you want?" I asked, my voice cutting through the hum of the cafeteria, annoyed at being stopped in the first place.
"I'd be careful with that one, you know. That little pixie girl," he said, glancing around as if checking for eavesdroppers.
I rolled my eyes. What could she have done? Killed someone? Burned down a building?
"Why?" I asked, scuffing my boot against the rough wall. His gaze darted left and right, making sure no one else was within earshot.
"Don't you two have somewhere else to be?" he barked at the nearby patients, who quickly shuffled away, and out of earshot. He turned his full attention back to me, his expression serious. Leaning in closer, his breath warm against the shell of my ear, he murmured, "She's a witch."
"A witch, really?" Jasper asked, finally rejoining the conversation.
I laughed, a short, bitter sound. "Yep. She'd been accused of witchcraft. Something about her parents, from what I heard. It freaked people out, so they skipped town, and she ended up at Stone with little ol' me."
AN : AAAAAAnd that's it for chapter two! Thank you so much for reading this far and I appreciate all the love for the first chapter.
Please review if you'd like another chapter, any comments or criticism is welcome.