Head Case

by Kendra Moreno

  “He was a dick,” Crane mutters as he comes up beside me again.

  “Yeah.” I shrug, rubbing the sore spot on my wrist as we get closer to the doors. Another orderly stands nearby, watching us, but says nothing.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asks, fawning over my wrist.

  I shake my head, looking up at him. “No, not really. Thank you for standing up for me,” I whisper. “But I can stand up for myself, you know.” My voice is stronger by the end of the sentence, and Crane gives me a crooked grin.

  “I bet you can, Princess.”

  I groan, pushing the door open and leaving Crane behind me. I’m not a fucking princess. Though, I wouldn’t mind hearing him say it under different circumstances . . .

  * * *

  /-/-/-/

  * * *

  I throw myself down on my bed, staring up at the same ceiling I’d been staring at for the past . . . how many years? I’d lost count. My whole life, except for a few years and one really bad moment are inside these walls. I sigh, blinking until the patterns in the ceiling start to morph into new figures before my eyes. It’s fun to make shapes out of the swirls in the plaster.

  There’s a bunny, something round . . . maybe a penguin? I roll my eyes shut and take a deep breath. Instead of blackness, Crane’s face flashes across my vision. The way he looked at me outside, earlier, was intense. His blue eyes stare back at me from the nothingness behind my lids, flickering with something I can’t quite put my finger on.

  I sit up straight, reaching for the nearest book on my nightstand. Wuthering Heights. Again. It is a favorite, though. I open the book to the last passage I’d been on and dive into a different world, one where I don’t miss Derrick and gingercunt orderlies don’t call me a slut for wanting some piece of normalcy. As I make my way through Heathcliff’s emotional outburst on the moors, I find myself picturing one dark-haired, blue-eyed, awkward FG.

  “Gah!” I huff, closing the book with a loud snap.

  This is a problem.

  I throw my head back onto my pillow and try to snuggle down into the bed. Sleeping will make me feel better, it always does. Except, the ache between my thighs hasn’t fully gone away since Crane touched me in the gardens. I brush my fingers against my lips, imagining what his would feel like there. I wish he would have kissed me. Not knowing, not feeling it was going to drive me fucking crazy. I had to know.

  My tongue darts out, wetting my bottom lip as my eyes close. The scene in my mind is exactly like before: Crane staring at me with heat flickering in his eyes. I shudder, imagining how a kiss would have been.

  Is he a soft kisser? Would he bite my lips, or collar my throat to keep me where he wants me? I’d put money on him being a biter, considering the way his teeth grazed my skin outside. My thighs rub together, and I try to ignore the heat building, the slickness accumulating between my folds.

  I swallow and the sound reverberates in my empty room. “Fuck,” I mutter, digging my fingers into my thigh. If only the orderlies weren’t so fucking prudish. I bet he’d have fucked me on the grass. That’s something Derrick and I never got to do.

  My fingers go still. I won’t think about him. Not even–

  A zing like an electric shock in my chest lights up the blank screen behind my eyes, and I watch as Crane slides his hands into my hair, pulling my head to the side as he kisses me. The kiss isn’t gentle, but it’s not as rough as he can be, either. I can tell. The power thrumming through his shoulders, the way his hands shake as they pull me closer, as he devours me.

  And I had no doubt that Crane would devour me. I bite my bottom lip, slipping my hand into my panties. My fingertips run through the wet flesh, sliding the moisture where I want it–

  onto my clit.

  My head rolls to the side as my fingers circle the sensitive bud. I need to see what would happen. Better yet, I need to feel it. I whimper as I increase my speed, trying to be quiet. I’d give anything to feel him stretch me open right now, to feel him plunge deep inside me while he looks at me like that.

  Images of Crane above me, his hand wrapped around my neck as he rolls his hips against mine flash through my head. I love the feel of it. The pressure. The fullness. I can almost feel it, if only in my twisted little imagination.

  “Please,” I whisper to no one as I slip my other hand between my legs and push two fingers inside myself.

  This isn’t what I want, but it’ll have to do.

  Crane brushes his lips along my collar bone, dragging his teeth across the sensitive skin as he presses his cock against my opening. “Is this what you want instead?”

  I nod, unable to speak as he teases me. His hot breath moves over my throat to my neck, just below my ear. His lips barely touch me as he speaks, his cock sliding ever so slowly inside my pussy with a growl.

  “This is mine.” He doesn’t ask a question. It is. It’s his right now. I nod, spreading my legs wider, silently begging for more. Deeper. Harder. Just more.

  “Say it!”

  My breath hitches as he pulls out almost completely, my back arching as I try to chase the friction I so desperately need.

  “Yours!”

  My eyes roll back in my head as he slams inside me, filling me until I think I can’t take anymore. The gentle, awkward man I’d met is gone, and in his place, is something . . . different. The darkness inside of him matches me, pushes me forward, urging me to take what I need from him.

  I wrap my arms around his neck, breathless, my legs hiking up over his hips.

  Each thrust pushes me closer to something. The pressure inside is too much, too big, too . . .

  “Cum for me, Princess,” he growls in my ear, the deep voice that seems so misplaced on him demands my pleasure.

  “Yes!” My nails score his back, but I can’t bring myself to care if I mark him up. My back arches, my hips working against his as he swells inside me. I look up into the blue eyes above me, my mouth parting as I shatter against him.

  Everything falls away, everything goes still for a moment.

  “You have such a lovely head,” he whispers, gazing into my eyes as he spills inside me.

  “Holy shit,” I whisper between pants, laughing as my fingers still lazily circle my clit. I pull my hand back, my shoulders shaking as more laughter racks my body. “What the actual fuck?” I bite my lip, trying to gain my bearings.

  What in the hell is wrong with me?

  What in the hell is wrong with him? I hold my hand up, admiring the way the wetness shines in the light before I move to the bathroom.

  Orgasms always make me sleepy, even weird orgasms. I wash my hands, quickly turn off all my lights and crawl into bed, under the thin blanket this time.

  “You have such a lovely head.” I can still hear him in my head whispering it in the most reverent tone possible. A smile stretches across my face as I hug my pillow and close my eyes.

  Chapter 7

  Crane

  Waking up inside of Whisperwood is a surreal experience. My nightmares had been full of blood and horrors, and when I finally crack my eyes open when the alarm goes off inside my room—or is it a cell?—I am so disoriented that I think for a moment I’m back in my shitty apartment. It takes me a full minute to figure out my surroundings and when I do, I sit there in slight disbelief. I convinced myself in my dreams I’d made this place up, that the blonde woman who drew me in was nothing more than some incorporeal phantom.

  Someone bangs on my door, a muffled voice screaming, “Time to wake up!” as the locks slide free. I’m tempted to lay back down, to ignore the world, but the banging repeats on the next door over, and I groan. I grab a fresh pair of light-blue pants and shirt and make my way toward the shower. I make quick work of freshening up before I leave my room.

  I’m still not used to this shithole yet, so it takes me a little longer to find the cafeteria than I’d like. By the time I arrive, the tables are already bursting with other patients, a soft murmur filling the room. It’s broken up by the occasional shout o
r inexplicable noise, but otherwise, it’s almost like the years I spent in school. That alone causes anxiety to spread. There are too many people, too many possibilities.

  We are stronger than all the people in this room.

  “Shut up, you proper asshole,” I mumble, glancing around the room. When I spy a perfect little blonde head sashaying around the room I start walking before I know what I’m doing. Suddenly, the anxiety melts away, and a confidence I’m not accustomed to fills my mind.

  “Morning, Princess,” I say when I’m right behind her.

  She jerks and turns her green eyes on me, narrowing them in accusation.

  “Didn’t I tell you not to call me that, FG?”

  I shrug. “When you start call me something else besides FG, maybe we’ll talk about your nickname, too.”

  Let her call us whatever she likes, the voice purrs in my head. I almost growl back at it, as if that will help.

  Kenzie’s expression slides from annoyed to amused in a matter of seconds, her eyebrows perking up. “Still hearing voices, huh?”

  “How do you always know that?” I whisper, glancing from side to side as if it matters that a room full of crazy people know I’m also crazy.

  “Call it a sixth sense,” she grins.

  We both slide into line for food, Kenzie in front of me. I can’t help but smell her hair as we walk, the scent of spices—it almost reminds me of pumpkin spice—hitting me in the face. Honestly, I’m curious if she smells the same way all over. The voice in my head rumbles at the thought.

  I watch as a woman behind the counter loads a plastic tray full of food which doesn’t look half bad. Honestly, I expected something far worse from this place, maybe like prison food. There’s a barely overcooked blueberry muffin and some normal-looking oatmeal on Kenzie’s tray. Hell, she even gets fresh fruit.

  Kenzie takes the tray with a smile. “Thanks, Gina. I owe you one.”

  “Any time, honey.” The older woman returns the smile fondly but when her eyes turn to me, it disappears completely. I smile slightly, not disheartened because I’m new and unknown, but mine drops, too, when the plastic tray she has in front of her gets loaded with something completely different than Kenzie’s.

  I don’t get fresh fruit. I don’t get a muffin, overcooked or otherwise. The oatmeal that gets slopped onto the tray is too dark to be edible. It looks like it was left in the pot while the burner was still on, so it burned completely through. An overly ripe banana drops onto the tray before she hands it to me, the brown skin denting when it hits the plastic. She slides the tray over to me, and I take it in confusion, glancing over again at Kenzie’s much more appealing breakfast.

  Kenzie winks, but she doesn’t speak up. She doesn’t ask her friend to give me something fresher, and I don’t expect her to. I grab the tray and mumble a quick “thank you” moving along without trouble. Kenzie has had years to build up relationships in Whisperwood. It would, no doubt, take me just as long to do the same.

  But I’m not staying here permanently, I remind myself. This is only temporary. No use trying to make friendly with the staff.

  We should make her pay for giving us such concessions.

  “Jesus Christ,” I mumble, watching Kenzie head toward a mostly empty table. Her friend, Mitzy, is already sitting there, swatting at something in the air around her. I don’t see any bugs when I follow, but I don’t discount her swatting. If I could swat away the unnamed bastard in my head, I would.

  I have a name.

  “Really?” I realize too late that I said the words out loud as I take a seat. Kenzie looks at me, but she doesn’t have any judgement in her eyes. I suppose I’m in the best place to avoid looks of pity.

  I don’t sit down right away. The false confidence I’d been feeling flees the moment the memory of the night before comes crashing back into my brain. I’d really told Kenzie she had a lovely head. It’s no wonder that I’ve never been a people person. I can’t even be sure anymore if the words are my own or the voice’s. Did I suddenly have a liking for heads? Or is it some sort of sign of my mental degradation? Fuck, maybe it’s both.

  You should overcome your self-loathing, mortal. It is rather tiresome.

  “Maybe you should mind your own business,” I mumble. Kenzie takes a seat with her back to me. The thought that she shouldn’t let her guard down around me flits through my mind.

  We should claim her. She’s ours.

  I try to ignore the voice, but I can feel my face twitch, anyway. Goddamn it! Will I ever get rid of this bastard?

  No.

  One word. That was his only answer.

  “Are you gonna fucking sit down or stand there all day?” Kenzie growls without turning to look at me. “Hell, I can feel your brainwaves from here. Don’t kill your brain cells now.”

  My face flames, and I slam my tray down a little too hard on the table in my haste to avoid further embarrassment. Mitzy squeaks and stands up, but Kenzie’s hand on her shoulder pulls her back down.

  “It’s just FG, Mitz. You’re okay.”

  “Spy,” Mitzy whispers. I’m not sure she means for me to hear, but I do. I wonder how long this spy business is going to continue.

  “Sorry,” I say, staring at the oatmeal on my plate in annoyance. Do they really expect me to eat this shit? I’m gonna fucking starve before my month is up at Whisperwood.

  Without saying a word, Kenzie slides the blueberry muffin onto my tray.

  “Thank you,” I sigh, grabbing the much nicer muffin.

  “Don’t fucking thank me. I just don’t want you to starve. You being weak doesn’t benefit me any. You need to keep your strength up.”

  I raise my brows. “And what exactly am I keeping my strength up for?”

  Kenzie pops a small piece of fruit—a sliced strawberry maybe? —into her mouth with a wicked grin. “You’ll just have to see, FG.” And for the first time, I don’t mind that fucking nickname.

  All kinds of images flash through my head: Kenzie’s head thrown back in ecstasy, her hands running up and down her body, blood coating her skin. That image brings me to a complete stop. What the actual fuck is wrong with me? I’m losing my goddamn mind.

  “There’s so many of them!” Mitzy interrupts my thoughts, and I stare at her in confusion.

  I glance around, checking to see if she means the other people, but in the moments it took me to grab my tray and sit down, at least half of them left the room.

  “Mitzy sees things sometimes,” Kenzie explains. “I used to try to tell her there was no one there. I stopped when I realized it made it worse.” She’s speaking to me, but her eyes never leave her friend, a sad half-smile on her lips.

  “That’s—” I stop. It’s terrible, but I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. I don’t feel pity really. The world is a fucked-up place. I’ve known that for years. Whisperwood is a home for those of us who can no longer separate reality from fantasy, and now I find myself in the same boat as Mitzy. I might not be seeing things yet, but I’m hearing things. I’m already halfway there.

  Kenzie doesn’t respond to my half sentence, maybe knowing what I stopped myself from saying. She’s far too perceptive.

  “So,” she begins, popping a piece of melon between her lips and chewing. For the first time since we sat down, her eyes glance toward me. “Are you gonna explain the head comment?”

  The piece of muffin in my mouth goes down the wrong hole, and I start coughing. Kenzie beats me on the back with far more strength than I gave her credit for. It feels a little bit like she’s taking some things out on me. Jesus, I might be bruised along my spine afterward. I gulp down some water in an attempt to clear it, preparing myself to explain how I don’t really know where the comment came from at all, but I never get the chance.

  The orderly from the day before saunters up as if he owns the place. His hands are behind his back, a false leisure in his gait. If it wasn’t for the tension in his shoulders that I can see from a mile away, I might have thought he didn’
t have a care in the world. Unfortunately, I can also see the hatred in his eyes, eyes which are zeroed in on Kenzie.

  He dares to look upon her that way!

  My head twitches at the voice, but I don’t argue with him. I find my own anger festering at the look, my fingers tapping a staccato rhythm against my thigh in tune to my agitation.

  Kenzie scowls at the man, her fingers clenching around her plastic fork a little tighter. “What do you want?”

  “You’re sitting awfully close together.” He flicks his eyes to me for a moment before returning to Kenzie. “Seems the little slut has already chosen another victim.”

  Anger the likes I’ve never felt fills me, and I see red. I can’t control it, my blood boiling to a point where I feel like I need a weapon in my hands. A sword maybe?

  An axe! The voice snarls. Kill him!

  The words slam down inside my skull, and they’re not just the voice’s anymore. They’re mine, too. I rise to my feet, my forearms straining as I lean on the table with my fists.

  “Sit down, patient,” the orderly–Vic, his name tag reads–growls. He tries to sound tough, but the words come out strangled. Whatever he sees in my eyes scares him, but his pride doesn’t let him back down. That would be his mistake.

  KILL! KILL! KILL!

  I’m grabbing the plastic tray before I know what I’m doing. The action is so unlike me that it breaks through the red haze. My fingers loosen, and I set the tray down, my knees bending automatically. I take my seat again, my brows furrowed. Kenzie’s shoulders don’t relax, and neither do mine.

  KILL HIM NOW!

  I grit my teeth, my fingers twitching toward the tray again.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” the idiot growls, as if he has a death wish. “In here, you’re my little bitch.” He leans forward on the table, his hands splayed as he gets right in my face.