Page 14 of Formaldehyde

Memories of forcing my bunk mate to swallow a plastic knife for calling my sister hot after he found a drawing of her under my pillow, flashes heavily in my mind. I couldn’t stand the way he spoke about her, all the things he wanted to do to her so I had to silence him, forever. That night I slept like a baby as the prison guards attempted to pull out the knife that was lodged into the back of his throat.

It was a very messy ordeal and I was more annoyed that he’d gotten blood all over my bunk sheets.

Rain patters against the windscreen, breaking me out of my trance and I catch Mr Wilson rolling his eyes at my comment. “Why am I not surprised that you enjoyed your time in there? You wouldn’t be the Ethan Ashcroft I know if you didn’t.”

It’s safe to say that Mr Wilson is fully aware of my.. crimes and didn’t even think to hesitate when I phoned him from the prison, using my one phone call to ask him for a favour.

A comfortable silence settles in the car and for the first time in a while, I felt like I can fully relax, like I didn’t have to watch my back every time I tried to close my eyes. I’ve made a lot of enemies in Birchwood, but that’s only because they could never be better than me. I’m more than just the bad boy outcast, I grew into a fully fledged man with killer tendencies, a black soul and only one thing on my mind.

Alina Ashcroft.

After about an hour's drive, we finally arrive at Nocturnal Mortuary. My limbs ache from being crumpled up in such a small car. I'm grateful for Mr Wilson but my height didn’t appreciate the small space.

Droplets of rain trail down the windscreen as Mr Wilson cuts the engine. I keep a tight grip on the plastic bag as I exit the car. Immediately rain falls onto my face and I turn my head towards the greying sky, feeling each droplet soak into my skin.

I can’t remember the last time I felt rain on my skin.

It almost feels.. nice.

The sound of Mr Wilson unlocking the mortuary doors pulls me out of my trance and I quickly make my way inside to be hit with the familiar scents of chemicals and embalming fluids. Everything about this place feels like home, a place where I’m free to be myself.

Mr Wilson pulls off his coat and hangs it on one of the pegs before clasping his aged hands together to blow heat on them. He rubs them together then slips them into his trouser pockets. “I’ve set up the apartment upstairs for you and everything you’ve requested has been done.”

A small smile pulls at my top lip but I quickly pull it back, realising I actually have nothing to smile about anymore. “Thanks, I appreciate that.” I give him a curt nod and start towards the stairs that lead to the upper apartment. I only make it a couple of steps when Mr Wilson plants his hand on my shoulder. His touch has me freezing in place but he doesn’t seem to mind my stone-like demeanour. “I’m glad to have you home, Ethan. I’m sure Alina would feel the same.”

Hearing my sister's name has me snatching the soft flesh inside my mouth between my teeth. I haven’t heard my sister’s name leave anyone's mouth since that night and I’m not entirely sure how to feel about it.

I know Mr Wilson means no harm by it but her name feels sacred, like I’m the only one who is allowed to say it. She belongs to me, she’ll always belong to me.

I don’t trust myself not to snap at him, so instead I clamp my jaw together and give him a short nod before slipping out of his grasp and heading up the stairs, plastic bag in hand.

Entering the small apartment, I’m met with a double bed, a matching wardrobe and drawers then a connected kitchen and a small bathroom. It’s not much, but for me it’s perfect and a hell of a lot better than the box I’ve been living in for the past four years. It’s a place to call my own, a place where I’m safe from the physical demons, that being my father.

During my time in Birchwood, I heard my mum had died from an accidental fall down the stairs but I knew it was bullshit and it was only a matter of time before my dad made good on his promises and ended her life. I expected to feel some kind of hurt, or sadness maybe but I felt nothing, I didn’t even shed a tear at the loss of my mother and maybe I just wasn’t capable of that anymore, seeing as my sister took my heart with her when she stepped out in front of that car.

My little sister took everything with her. My heart, my soul, my life. All of it was gone in a matter of moments. I love her, so fucking much but I hate her for it too and that hate runs so deep inside of my veins that I can practically feel it poisoning me from the inside out.

Inhaling deeply, I shove that anger even further down and take a seat on the edge of the bed. The mattress is soft and I ease into the comfort, then open the plastic bag with my belongings from prison. Both items stare back at me, I grab my phone first and press down on the button at the side to be met with a red battery image on the screen.

Okay, I didn’t expect them to keep it charged.

Spinning on the bed, I find a charging cable plugged in at the wall and connect my phone to the wire then place it on the small bedside unit, then go back to the bag and take out my wallet. There’s a spare bit of cash in there, my drivers licence, a bank card and in the small pocket is a folded polaroid picture of Alina.

It was taken only a couple of months before her death. She practically shoved the polaroid camera in my hands and demanded I take a picture of her for me to keep. I never thought anything of it at the time and aimlessly snapped a picture. But looking at it now, the way her golden hair falls effortlessly over her shoulders, her smile wide and bright after I made her laugh at some stupid joke, means everything to me now.

She was happy then, we were happy then but now everything has changed and I can’t stop the brick of guilt that’s settling in my stomach. Maybe if I hadn't pushed her to want me back, she wouldn’t be dead. My little sister would be alive but then I would have to deal with just being near her, and never with her.

I’m not sure which is the worst evil.

Bringing the picture closer, I take in every detail of her face and run my finger over the worn image, tracing the creases in the picture. I close my eyes for a moment and allow the wave of grief to wash over me before folding the picture back up and slipping it back inside my wallet, then I drop it onto the bedside unit next to my phone and head for the bathroom.

Stepping out of the grey sweatshirt and joggers, I leave them in a heap on the floor and step under the volcanic water that’s spraying out of the shower head. It hits me like bullets and I groan as my muscles begin to relax. Tension starts to ease in my shoulders and I turn my face towards the water and run my hand through my overgrown hair. I was forced to have it shaved when I was arrested but now it’s thick and long on the top and often falls over my eyes.

After scrubbing the prison’s grizzly essence from my skin, I place my hands on the tiled wall and let my head hang low between my shoulders. Water droplets struggle to cling to the ends of my hair but quickly accept defeat and fall onto the shower floor where they swirl down the drain.

Here in the silence of the shower, my mind is loud. Squealing tires and the snap of broken bones stabs into my ears like a blunt screwdriver, the whole thing plays before me like a sick film, a continuous nightmare that I can’t seem to escape.

If I’m not being plagued by my sister’s death, I’m being taunted by her sweet moans as I ate her virgin pussy from behind. Every night in that cell, I would hear her moan my name, begging me to make her come, and every night I would fuck my hand to thought of her and just like those lonely nights, I’m here doing the same thing.