Forget Me Not (Book 2 Of Lastor Series)

Five years ago... "Hi, I'm Diane. I'm nineteen and I haven't self-harmed in three weeks," said the woman who sat beside me. "We're proud of you, Diane," everyone responded in unison. She smiled, lowering her head while biting her lip and fumbling with the sleeve of her shirt. The b***h was itching to dig her veins out, I could tell. I've been there. I was currently going through it. The facilitator asked Diane how she had been doing and she said she was doing well and that she just spoke to her father on the phone yesterday. She started crying and went on about her f*****g sob story for the next fifteen minutes. I wasn't listening pretty well but a few weeks ago, I heard the nurses talking about how she had stabbed her mom's husband twenty times with a kitchen knife when he was asleep and pleaded insanity to avoid jail time. Apparently, the guy had been doing all sorts of disgusting things to her since she was thirteen whenever her mom was out on a business trip and one night, she just couldn't take it anymore. Her mother later came home and found her sitting by the stairs, holding the kitchen knife and drenched in dried blood. It was like a story straight out of a f*****g movie. When Diane eventually got her s**t together, the facilitator, Kathy, set her eyes on me expectantly. I wanted to bash her f*****g face on the wall. I turned my head away instead, looking out the window that was steel barred and had a screen on it for assurance. As if some nut case might do a jumper on a bad day, which wasn't necessarily unlikely. There was one nut case in here who would spend all damn day running herself into the f*****g wall over and over while screaming her f*****g lungs out, claiming she was one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and cursed anyone who touched her to a horrible death. She had schizophrenia and committed suicide on Christmas Eve. I've been in this hellhole for four months now, St. Ignatius Sanctuary Center. It was a fancy name for an insane asylum. I was under a program for depression leading to suicidal tendencies and a severe case of alcoholism and drug addiction. It was my second stint and apparently, the first one did jack s**t. It only took me two weeks to relapse and throw away 90 days of torture in rehab. It couldn't be helped. It just ain't f*****g worth the pain to be normal, you know? Now, I was stuck in this godforsaken place in Buttfuck-Nowhere, Ireland and for the past four months, I've been thrust into the quintessential activities that a pre-school student did on a daily basis. Painting. Sharing stories. Playing music. Dancing. f*****g napping. It was all a f*****g joke. The one thing that didn't suck was the yoga because at least, for one hour, everything was quiet and no one was watching me, expecting me to stab myself in the eye with a f*****g crayon like my roommate had done during a fit of psychosis. I only started talking two weeks ago. I wasn't necessarily quiet. Hell, I screamed the f*****g house down every break of dawn and whenever a nurse tried to give me a bath in a f*****g tub. But I found my way around talking again. I had to. Jude would not get off my f*****g back about it. Now, they all treated me like I was some f*****g miracle and shoved all their goddamn therapies down my throat as if they had a hand on making me talk. They did jack s**t. I started talking cuz I was sick of Jude crying every damn time he came to visit. I met with the resident psychiatrist Dr. Harrison three times a week and he would try to poke my head with all his mind games and probing questions. I never humored him. I had no interest in having a dimwitted shrink f**k with my head. I'd never even said a word to him, just fuckin' stared at him for an hour straight before seeing myself out. He was my fourth shrink, or maybe sixth. I've lost count. All had one thing in common, they went running for the hills screaming bloody fuckin' murder in the end. I was planning on getting it done and over with this prick. His fat ass was annoying the s**t out of me the more I saw that bald fuckin' head of his dressed in an atrocious f*****g toupée. "Nicole?" I heard Kathy call and it took me a second to realize she was talking to me. Jude had supplied me with an elaborate fake identity since my first stint. Nicole Ford. 22. Grew up in Oakland, California with an Irish mother and an American father, which explained away my lack of accent. Came back to the motherland as a teen after attempting suicide to live with my fictional extended family. Attempted suicide again via heroin overdose last summer and lost my bloody mind at some point, apparently. It was necessary, unless I wanted to have a media frenzy feasting on me while I was busy trying not to lose my sanity. "Would you like to share something, Nicole?" Kathy asked. I sighed, surveying the pathetic group forming a circle while they sat on the floor. I was the only one standing. Why? Cuz I was the only one who still had most of my marbles in my f*****g bowl. I didn't need this s**t. Dr. Harrison viewed my refusal to participate in their ridiculous activities as my way of rebelling against authority. I just didn't fancy sharing my goddamn life story with a bunch of strangers. "Go on, don't be shy," Kathy urged. I tilted my head, eyeing her intently. She had strawberry blonde hair. An explosion of curls. Freckles dotting her cheeks. And spectacles too big for her face. She wore a hideous maroon knitted sweater but underneath it, I could plainly see that the girl had a porn star's t**s. Bigger than Andrea's t**s. My better half had lovely t**s that I loved to suck and f**k with a strap on. I used to do that when we still f****d each other and f****d together. Until I met him... Don't f*****g start, i***t. I blew out a sharp breath, rolling my neck to get rid of my tensed muscles. Kathy was still fuckin' staring. She had shared with the group how she struggled with pills while she was in college. Got hooked on Adderall and went batshit crazy her junior year after getting a failing grade on an exam and tried to kill her professor. This place saved her, she claimed. And now she volunteered once a week. Every f*****g Sunday. She was a fraud. She didn't know what pain was like. She didn't know what losing everything you cared about was like. She didn't know what hopelessness and true grief was like. Her smile mocked me. Her fake sympathy pissed me off. Her stupid Irish accent irritated me. Everything about her made me hate this shithole even more. I've wanted to rip her apart ever since she told me I should smile more because I was such a pretty girl. I decided it was about damn time I did something about it. No one calls me a pretty girl without regretting it. "Look at me," I said, approaching her and standing in the middle of their stupid circle. I crouched, leveling with her. "Take a good look at me, Kathryn," I whispered, reaching to hold her chin as I kneeled on the floor. "Do you see it, baby?" She tried to hide her apprehension but I could plainly see the wary look in her eyes as I held her gaze. "See what?" she said uncertainly. I smiled. "Can't you see it?" I tilted my head as I let my eyes rake over her face. "I want to f**k your goddamn brains out, sweetheart," I said softly, holding her neck and leaning my face closer to her, brushing our lips together. "I want to tongue f**k your pretty little cunt and taste you. I want to suck your perky t**s and shove my fingers inside your tight little ass hole. I want to make you c*m so hard your legs will shake and you won't be able to talk anymore. And I'm going to love it. I'm going to love how, for once in your pitiful life, you finally shut the f**k up and stop running your f*****g mouth off all the goddamn time." She was frozen, barely breathing and not blinking at all. I slid my free hand inside her long flowy skirt and cupped her p***y, smiling when she gasped. "Want me to show you how much I want you, baby?" I whispered. "Stop it," she choked out, eyeing the people around us warily. I shook my head, tutting as I slid her granny panties to the side and shoving three fingers inside her. She screamed like a b***h in heat. I lunged at her, pinning her to the floor, my hand gripping her neck tightly while I jack rammed my fingers in and out of her tight little p***y. Fuck, she must be a virgin. The crazies were jumping and yelling like buffoons arounds us, their insanity equally comical as it was horrifying. The look on her face was f*****g precious and had me quickening my pace as I f****d her pretty little virgin cunt with my fingers. Hard and fast. I could have c*m just listening to her scream for me to stop. When the male nurse who was standing guard outside the room rushed towards us and yanked me off her, I made a point of sucking my fingers. I moaned as I tasted the sweet tang of a virgin's blood. "You taste mighty fine, my little Irish rose!" I proclaimed with gusto, grinning widely as I watched her sob before running the f**k out of the room. I shoved the nurse aside, backing away when he tried to grab me again. "Touch me and I'll kill you." He didn't listen and tried to grab me. I swung a fist and it landed on his bearded face with a smack. I let loose, hurling myself towards him and we landed on the floor. I gripped fistfuls of his hair as I sent my fist down on his face relentlessly with no care. I didn't know how long I kept hitting him but by the time someone hauled me off his bleeding state, I could barely breathe. Blood was rushing to my head and I could feel my heart pumping harshly against my chest. My body was shaking, adrenaline filling me. My f*****g panties wet enough to be a f*****g crime. I screamed, writhing wildly as two male orderlies tackled me and pinned me to the floor. One had his knee on my back while pushing my face down and the other had his arms wrapped around my legs. A nurse came running in after them and yanked my pants down before jamming a needle in my left ass cheek. The moment the tranquilizer entered my blood stream, I stopped fighting and accepted with open arms the merciful relief I had been craving for. They let me go and I rolled on my back, a big fat smile spreading across my lips. They were all looking at me as if I was crazy. I wasn't. I was sure of that. I just liked pretending that I was so they'd stay the f**k away from me. And it was moments like this that I enjoyed the most. It made getting thrown into a padded cell and strapped into a straightjacket worth it. I got my high and it was worth it. I was sitting crossed legged on the floor in the middle of the cell and staring at the wall when the head nurse, Martha, walked in and told me it was time for my medicine. I played nice, only because the woman was sixty something and I didn't fancy putting her in a coffin. When I asked her what time it was, she told me it was 9:30 AM. I didn't realize I had been staring at the wall for nearly seventeen hours. It was a wonderful thing, to have your sanity rotting. You didn't notice mundane things such as time. She spoon fed me the meal she had brought in before taking me to the Dr. Harrison's office, complete with the stupid straightjacket. He had a disapproving look in his eyes as I took a seat on the couch opposite him. Martha took the straightjacket off and left. Dr. Harrison offered me a cigarette. He always did that, as if bribing me with a f*****g stick of Marlboro could get me to open my goddamn head for him to examine. Still, it was the only vice available to me. I lit up the cigarette and walked towards the large window, leaning against the wall and watching the pine trees surrounding this hellhole. "I heard there was an incident yesterday during the group session," Dr. Harrison began, failing to hide his obvious disappointment. "Would you like to tell me what that was about, Nicole?" I rolled my eyes and took a long drag from my cigarette, not responding. He sighed. "We both know you're not insane, Nicole. Why do you continue to pretend that you are?" I shrugged, watching the other patients as they started the yoga session in the courtyard. It pissed me off that I was missing it. "You like it, the yoga sessions," he observed. "I hear it's the only activity you participate in. The instructor tells me you've gotten quite good at it and asked me if she could provide you with private lessons since you've surpassed the others in regards to mastery. Would you like that?" Pursing my lips, I nodded timidly. "I was considering it but after your behavior yesterday, I'm having a hard time of trusting you. You understand why that is, yes?" He was silent for a moment, staring at me expectantly. I nodded. "What you did was a very bad thing, Nicole," he said as if I was slow. "Hurting people is wrong and cannot be rewarded. You know that, right?" Sighing, I nodded. "Why did you do it?" I was sick of that question. I've been hearing it for years from everyone in my life. As if knowing why could help them understand the demons in my f****d up head. I was so sick of answering it. Of having to explain my insanity. So far, it's done nothing but earn me unwanted pity. For the first time in four months, I spoke of my own volition. "Do you ever wonder what it's like to die, Albert?" I asked, catching the look of surprise on his face at the fact that I had spoken and used his first name. There was a long lingering silence. It had the voices in my head screaming at me. "I know what it's like to die," I said when he didn't answer me. "I've died three times and lived to tell the tale. Wanna know what I've got to say about death?" I turned to look at him and he urged me to go on with a light nod. I smiled, taking a long drag from my cigarette and letting it settle in my lungs. I didn't bother exhaling it. The sooner I died, the better. "It's nothing," I murmured. "Absolutely nothing. You feel nothing. You see nothing. You hear nothing. It's the most beautiful thing, to have nothing and become nothing." I closed my eyes as I slid down to the floor. "Living is the most painful thing. You feel everything. You see everything. You hear everything. I hate it. People think that living through the verge of death is some sort of blessing. It's not. It's the worst punishment you could ever give someone who wants nothing more than to die." "Do you feel like you're being punished?" was his predictable question. I opened my eyes half way, taking a drag from my cigarette and keeping the smoke in my lungs again. "I don't feel that way," I said softly, a small smile on my lips. "Punishments are temporary and there can only be one way to punish someone. In the old days, it was either hanging or beheading, depends on the era and the culture. In modern times, such barbaric acts are considered unlawful so the punishments have become milder. Modern parents have even adopted a less aggressive way to rear their children, most opting to encourage communication to solve a problem. The justice system have become more patient too, offering either a lifetime sentence in a jail cell or a needle to the vein, at worst. Some European countries have actually rejected the necessity for punishment and are choosing to rehabilitate criminals instead so they can become functional and healthy members of society. It's actually quite revolutionary, if I may say so. But this..." I sighed, shaking my head. "This is torture of the highest order. Being forced to wake up every day. To interact with people who will never understand me. To exist in a world that has nothing to offer me but more of the same s**t that I've wanted to escape from for half of my life. To... to live as if I'm still alive. I'm dead inside. The pain is gone. I can't feel anything anymore. I've gone numb. Having a bullet straight to my skull would be the most generous thing a person could give me but people are selfish. They won't let me die all because they think there's so much more to life than death. That is true. Life is filled with pain and suffering. I don't want it. I've had it for so long. I just want to die. I don't hate life. I'm not sad or angry. I just think death is better than this pathetic life that I have." I swallowed hard, my throat dry from having to speak for such a length. "That's why I did what I did yesterday. I wanted to feel something because maybe if I do, I won't want to die as much. It worked. For a few hours, I stopped wishing for death but like every good thing that I've experienced in my lifetime, the satisfaction was fleeting and I want to die again." I looked at him and found him scribbling almost enthusiastically on his little notebook. I wanted to shove my hand into his chest and rip out his insides. I sighed, stubbing my cigarette against my wrist and feeling a brief moment of satisfaction as the ember burned my skin. I blew at it to remove the excess of ash before licking the burn. I got to my feet and approached him, grabbing the wooden chair by a table and slamming it hard over his head. I hit him three times before dropping the chair. He was unconscious, face down on the floor, blood gushing from the back of his head. I looked at him for a moment but felt nothing. It wasn't enough. I needed to put my hands on him. To feel the heat of his body. To feel his pulse throbbing against his veins. To feel his breath on my skin. It was the only way for me to feel alive, to grasp the life of another person and beat it out of them with my bare hands. I crouched low, looting through his pockets and taking his silver cigarette case and lighter. "Next time, you tell me what death is like for you, Albert," I murmured before getting up. I walked towards the door, smiling at the two patients waiting outside and ignoring the frown on Rosie his assistant's face as I closed the door. "Albert was feeling sick and cut our time short. You should check on him, he didn't look very well," I said, taking a seat beside the two other patients. Rosie eyed me almost suspiciously before entering the room. I lit up a cigarette, chuckling lightly at the sound of Rosie screaming. Happy f*****g Birthday, Angel.