Page 4 of Sin Like the Devil
I was always an odd child. The lonely orphan, rattling around her absent uncle’s cold, impersonal four-story townhouse. I’ve been on antipsychotics and mood stabilisers ever since the housekeeper found me having a midnight birthday party for my friends on the balcony.
The overpaid London doctors said I was hallucinating my fourteen-year-old ass off and too manic to realise that my so-called friends weren’t even real. My horrified uncle, Jonathan, swept me off to an expensive psychiatrist who slapped a nice, neat label on my forehead.
That was it.
Bipolar.
End of story.
From that day forward, a handful of brightly coloured pills converted me into a semi-functional human being who graduated from art school at twenty-one and established her own life. And it worked for several years, until I relapsed and had an episode so bad, I landed myself in here.
After thinking that Martians were attempting to take me away, and if I left my two-bedroom flat in Hackney, I’d break an air lock that surrounded my apartment, Uncle Jonathan signed off on a generous donation to ensure I’d be dealt with quietly.
He easily handed me over to avoid any damage to his public image. Being a prolific financier and investor in the city might have afforded him a luxurious lifestyle that I benefited from growing up, but it didn’t allow for a batshit crazy niece, assaulting the pizza delivery guy while manic.
Leaning against an oak tree located off the green quad at the centre of Harrowdean Manor, I await the gaggle of patients making their way towards me. Right on time, as per usual. Everyone knows what day it is. I run a tight ship and never stray from the schedule.
Wednesday afternoon is our designated time slot for contraband collection. Santa Claus is here with gifts, and someone is about to get shit-rich on their self-destructive tendencies. Being the self-proclaimed queen of Harrowdean has its benefits, but I’m just an intermediary. My payment for the illegal crap I peddle comes in other forms.
“Hi, Ripley.” Santos reaches me first, his bleary eyes downturned. “My usual, please.”
Reaching into my sock, I pull the small plastic wrapper of cocaine from its hiding place. He checks in for more every day or two, and as long as my contraband lines hold steady, I regularly fulfil his order.
“Usual price.”
“Uh, well…” He avoids eye contact, shuffling his worn shoes.
“Come on, man. Don’t give me that.”
“My girlfriend’s behind on rent,” he rushes to explain. “She’s gonna smuggle the cash in at tomorrow afternoon’s visitation after she gets paid. Can I settle up then?”
“Tomorrow?” I raise an eyebrow.
His washed-out eyes finally meet mine, brimming with panic. “Please, Ripley.”
“You know the deal.”
“It’s just one day?—”
“No payment, no coke.”
“No!” he begs again, dragging his palms down his face. “I need to re-up.”
“I’m not a charity. Pay up or fuck off.”
Hands trembling, he seizes a handful of my oversized anime t-shirt. “All I’m asking for is twenty-four hours.”
Unbothered, I inspect my cuticles. “Not going to happen.”
“What is wrong with you, bitch?”
Now he’s pissing me off.
Sliding a hand into the waistband of my worn grey sweats, I grasp the metal switchblade I keep stashed at all times for my own protection. Santos’s eyes widen as I draw the weapon free and flick out the blade, gesturing with a wave. He quickly releases my shirt.
“Back off or I’ll happily paint the ground with your innards and let the guards find your body. They’ll take great pleasure in covering it up to avoid filing the damn paperwork.”
Cursing under his breath, he raises his hands in surrender, taking several large steps backwards. My blade remains drawn until he slinks away, muttering his displeasure.