Page 117 of These Vile Hearts

Sinking to the floor in the center of my cell, I accordion my legs,wrapping my arms loosely around them. I rock back and forth just to have something to do. Pretending my mouth doesn’t feel like sandpaper, pretending my vision isn’t blurring at the edges from the lack of insulin in my body, pretending everything will be okay, knowing it won’t.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

There used to be a wooden rocking chair in my living room. When he was home, my dad would sit in it on cold nights. I would crawl into his lap, and he would tell me stories. I don’t know which of his stories were true and which were fairy tales, now that magic and reality are thoroughly blurred. Maybe nothing is magic. Maybe everything is. All I know is magic is far from the sparkling, warm feeling I once imagined it to be.

I miss Javen, his infectious laugh and fierce loyalty. I miss walking on solid ground. I miss cheeseburgers and fries and all that greasy mortal food.

But as much as I long for my old mortal existence, I miss my life from only a week ago even more. Donning gowns and confidence at Magesté, laughing at Fern’s ridiculous questions about mortals, throwing Castor shade while sipping coffee. Kissing him on a piano top.

I have roots in so many places, it’s been impossible for me to grow. Here they felt more solid somehow. Buried deeper. Which is a ridiculous thought, because it was only a matter of time before I was uprooted again.

Because I’ve been a raging terror in everyone’s life. To my mom, my foster families, my bosses, my friends. Eventually, I’m too much for them to handle in one way or another. It’s probably for the best that I’m in here, that I’ll be gone soon.

I press my face between my knees, still rocking.

“Maddox!Maddox, I hope you’ve been thinking really hard in there. If you’re a good girl, I’ll let you out.”

With a start, I sit straight up. But I’m no longer in my cell.

I’m in a tiny bedroom: twin-sized bed tucked beneath a slanted ceiling, red-and-black checkered quilt, logs for walls, a tiny bookshelf filled with worn books, a doll with a lazy eye, a stuffed fox. And a door that locks from the other side. It’s been sixteen years since I’ve seen this room—the day the social worker brought me here to pack some clothes after my parents’ deaths.

Shaky legs carry me to the door. “Mama?”

My mother’s voice bleeds through the crack. “Have you thought about what you did, Maddox?”

“Let me out!Please.I need my insulin. I don’t feel good.”

“Maybe you should have thought about thatbefore, young lady.”

A sob escapes my throat as I press both hands against the wooden door. “Mama, please. I’m sorry.”

What did I do?I can’t remember what I did to upset her this time.

Cruel laughter sounds from the other side of the door, and I stumble backward, tripping over something. Falling to the ground, I throw my hands out to catch myself. Pain sparks in a thousand places across my palms, my arms, my back. I look madly around to see what I’ve landed on. Lifting my hand, I bite back a gasp. Dozens of empty insulin needles penetrate my skin. I’m a human pincushion. I try pulling them out, but mounds of needles rise from the floor of my room like a ship taking on water.

The laughter stops suddenly. The lights in the room blink out.

When they return, my mom is in front of me, electric-blue eyes wide and face red like it would get when she was in one of her states.

“This”—she snatches one of my needle-covered hands in her own—“is what”—presses a bloody finger to a glucometer—“happens”—the meter counts down and beeps, flashing the wordHI—“when you’re a bad diabetic.”

“I’m sorry,” I sob. “I tried. If you wouldn’t have locked me in here, I could’ve taken insulin to bring it down. I could’ve—”

“Are you blaming this onme?” The vein in her temple stands out. A spray of saliva leaves her lips as she spits the words, “I was protecting you.”

She’s never like this when Dad is here. She’s never like this around anyone but me. It doesn’t feel like being protected.

“For Christ’s sake, Maddox, why did you eat that candy yesterday? Look what it’sdoneto you.”

I want to deny it. I don’t remember eating candy, but maybe I did. Why would she lie about that? Why would she make it up?

A sudden wave of nausea hits me hard in my gut. I double over and vomit a choking wave of sugar onto the needle-littered ground. My mother claps a hand over her mouth.

“You could be in DKA,” she says in a muffled voice, growing hysterical now. “We have to get you to the hospital. We have to call your dad. You could die from this. I’m going to call your dad.”

The lights flicker again and the next moment she’s gone and the door is closed. I see the bolt turn.

“Wait!” I sob. The piles of needles multiply, plunging through the fabric of my clothes and into my skin.