Page 65 of Our Pretty Darling Psycho
~Vex~
Iwake up inside a film I never auditioned for, and I’m fairly certain it’s a musical.
Specifically the one with the hills and the nuns and the children stitched into curtains, because that is precisely the energy of the situation I find myself in—all sunlight and embroidery and the threat, at any moment, of someone bursting into song about their favorite things. I am wearing a white dress.
A genuine, frothing, absurd white dress, layered in those frivolous little flounces, the hem and bodice embroidered with tiny hearts in alternating red and pink, the sort of garment you’d put on a doll, or a bride, or a girl you intended to convince of something.
I have no memory of putting it on.
That, more than the dress itself, is the detail that lifts the hair on my arms.
I try to reconstruct the missing days the way I reconstruct everything—methodically, brick by brick—and the wall keeps coming up short. The cafeteria. Annalise’s grief and a needle in my neck. The cold flooding in and a pair of arms catching me.
After that, only fragments: a medical bay, a beeping that kept a stubborn rhythm, Riot’s voice rumbling somewhere above me, a kiss that tasted of chemicals and salvation. Then a great smeared blank, the kind a body draws over the hours it can’t afford to remember. They moved me through that blank.
They washed, dressed, transported, and installed me while I was too poisoned to vote on any of it, and the not-knowing sits in my chest like a stone, because I am a woman whose entire survival has been built on never once losing track of the board—and I have just lost track of days.
My hair has been washed. Not the hurried institutional scrub of the ward, but washed properly, conditioned, the pink and the violet of it freshly redone and gleaming, the healthiest it has looked in years.
My skin feels foreign—soft, dewy, glowing, as though someone laid me out while I was unconscious and layered me in creams that cost more than the average orderly’s month, buffing the asylum out of me like tarnish off silver. I have been tended. Groomed. Prepared. And I do not know by whose hands, which is a sentence that should never be true of my own body and is, this morning, alarmingly true.
On the nightstand beside the mirror—the mirror I’ve apparently been staring into for hours, cataloguing this glossy stranger wearing my face—sits a fresh, full arrangement of peonies.
They are obscene with health, blowsy and pale and perfect, and their scent has colonized the entire room, sweet and heavy and faintly funereal in a way I can’t place and don’t like.
Peonies. Someone chose peonies.
The someone has a name and amber eyes and a habit of calling me his sweet peony, and the message is not subtle, and underneath the flattery of it lies a colder echo I can’t quite silence—because the last Omega I knew who smelled ofpeonies was bruised and beaten and currently resides on the mortician’s table.
A man who courts a woman with the same bloom that clings to his dead is either deeply romantic or deeply unwell, and in his case I suspect the honest answer is both.
Beyond the window: an afterlife.
That’s the only word my reeling brain offers for it—rolling green hills and old stone and a landscape so lush and gentle and golden in the morning light that it cannot possibly be real, cannot possibly be a place a person like me is permitted to wake. There are gardens. A market square in the middle distance. Arches, gone soft with moss, framing a valley that looks like the place souls go when they’ve finally been forgiven.
I am outside. I am not in the ward.
The reinforced glass and the dead fluorescent hum and the cameras seamed into the walls are gone, and in their place is birdsong and sunlight and a breeze that smells of cut grass and growing things.
Three years, seven months, and however many days my poisoned count has lost track of—that is how long it has been since air moved against my skin that hadn’t first been filtered through an institution’s lungs.
I had forgotten what unconditioned morning smells like. Grass and stone and distant woodsmoke and the green wet promise of a garden after dew. It is, objectively, the loveliest thing I’ve woken to in years.
And every cell in my body is screaming at me that lovely is the most dangerous condition a thing can be in, because in my experience the prettier the room, the worse the price of the door.
Which can only mean one thing.
At some point, while I was too poisoned to negotiate, I made a deal with the devil. And I cannot, for the unraveling life of me, remember the terms.
I slept…I realize…on silk.
Pink silk sheets, cool and impossible against my newly soft skin, and I have not slept on anything resembling silk since—since a wedding night, in another life, when I lay tangled in expensive linens beside an Alpha I genuinely believed would keep the vow he’d made me.
Love, honor, till death parted us.
He kept exactly one third of it; death is still pending, and entirely his fault that it’s on the calendar at all. I have not been comfortable, truly comfortable, in the years since I learned what his promises were worth.
Now here I am, swaddled in silk and hearts and peonies, the most comfortable I’ve been since the last time comfort was a trap.
