Page 3 of Burn Like An Angel
As more moonlight spills through the window, a wave of déjà vu hits me amongst the thick plumes of dust. Like the rest of the institute, the bedroom is trashed. I move slowly and carefully, fearful the floor is going to give way at any moment.
My gaze is locked on the rusted bed springs, littered with scraps of decaying fabric that have peeled off the frame over the years. This is the bed where I held a knife to Ripley’s throat, intent on ending the never-ending game for both of us before something stopped me.
Shestopped me.
No—It was the way she made me feel.
That cruel vixen brought me to my knees without even trying. I couldn’t have stopped her even if I’d wanted to. Deep down,I was always hers to claim. Even in the months I refused to acknowledge that.
Ripley Bennet stole me.
Broke me.
Fixed me.
Fuckinglovedme.
I knew what I was missing out on by refusing to feel or be vulnerable ever again—that’s the thing the doctors and psychiatrists could never quite fathom. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel. Far from it. Rather, I used to feel so much, I instead simply chose never to feel again.
A silent scream.
And an unheard one at that.
But now our screams aren’t just being heard. They’re being documented. Edited. Cut into palatable soundbites to capture the public’s eye. Our stories are being commercialised, swallowed and fucking regurgitated to secure some ambitious asshole’s moment in the limelight.
She’s enabling it.
Once again, Ripley’s signing our death warrants.
I can’t allow this documentary to happen. No matter what people’s motivations are for getting involved, nothing good can come of dredging up the past. As much as I may hate the way this tragedy has been erased, I won’t watch my family suffer the repercussions again.
If the world knows the true story, every last gory detail of what went on in this very manor, we can kiss the last decade of painful peace goodbye. No matter how horrific the long-lasting trauma has made these years. At least we’re free.
Ripley’s voice may change that.
I have to stop the documentary from airing.
CHAPTER 1
RIPLEY
HELP. – YOUNG LIONS
TEN YEARS EARLIER
I’ve recently becomeacquainted with pure agony.
It’s not the kind of pain you’d experience from a scraped knee or a sore cartilage piercing. That pain can be buried. Avoided. Numbed. Tucked away into a darkened corner until it grows tired of hanging around and fades.
The pain that’s wracking my body now is a whole other level of intensity. Beyond exhaustion or emotional anguish. Survival isn’t free—for any of us. It always extracts a toll, one way or another.
Escaping sometimes means leaving pieces of ourselves behind.
I imagine it’s the same pain that semi-conscious Lennox is feeling. His injured hand hangs at his side as he’s pulled along between Xander and Raine. I watch his bare feet drag against the ground, limp and useless.
“Where now?” Raine asks.
“Straight ahead,” I croak.