Page 81 of Deadliest Psychos


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The cameras surge.

“What are you doing?” the voice demands.

I open my eyes and look straight into the nearest lens.

“I’m choosing,” I say.

The room waits.

“I know you’ll watch,” I continue. “I know you’ll record. I know you’ll predict.”

I lean back on my hands, utterly still. “But you will never know why.”

Silence. Long. Stretched.

The screens flicker uncertainly, models failing to converge.

For the first time since I woke, the system hesitates.

Good.

I remain where I am, calm and deliberate, giving them everything they think they want while denying them the one thing they need. Meaning. They can watch forever. I will still decide.

And that, I know, will drive them mad. And while I wait, I plot how to get her back.

THESIS WITH TITS

Bubblegum Bitch - Marina & The Diamonds

Kookaburra

The garden is pathetic. A patchy square of grass, a few struggling shrubs, and a raised bed of what might be carrots or might be someone’s fingers sticking out of the dirt. Hard to tell at a glance. Needs work. There’s a greenhouse too but I’ll explore that another day. Don’t want to have all my orgasms at once.

The real treasure is tucked away at the side, under a tarp: the wood chipper. Orange. Industrial. Slightly stained.

Absolutelygorgeous.

“Hello, darling,” I purr, stroking the metal casing like it’s purring back. “I’m going to be your new mummy. I’m going to feed you every single day.”

“Kayla,” Doctor Callaway warns from behind me, her tone clipped. She’s got gloves on. Sensible. Pity. “This is a therapeutic exercise. Not an excuse to channel your more…destructive urges.”

I arch a brow, dragging the tarp off with a dramatic flourish. “Why else would you give me a machine that turns things into mulch?”

“To build responsibility. Siphon your energy into something productive.”

“Mulch is productive.”

“You’re not to chip anything living.”

“Define living,” I say sweetly.

She stares.

I sigh. “Fine. Nothing breathing. Unless it’s a particularly annoying squirrel.”

Still silence.

I flick my eyes heavenward and tut. “Joking. Christ. Don’t have a coronary.”