“Yes,” she says. “That I have to cut it all off. Rules are rules.”
The sound of the scissors snapping open and closed fills the room and I twist, trying to scoot away, but the jacket restrains me, holding me captive as she kneels closer.
“No, Jess,” I beg. “Please, don’t… don’t do this… I didn’t.”
Her smile returns, mean and harsh, as she tilts her head. “You don’t get to plead, Raven. Not anymore. This is for your own good.”
The first snip echoes in the sterile room, the sound razor-sharp and final. A chunk of my hair falls to the padded floor, crimson against the pale white.
“No!” I scream, thrashing against the restraints, my body jerking wildly. My cries are desperate, echoing off the padded walls. “Jess, stop! Please, don’t!”
She doesn’t give a fuck, her face coldly determined as the scissors bite into another lock of my hair.
“Stop moving, Raven,” Jess orders.
But I don’t stop. I can’t. I twist, trying to throw her off, my muscles burning from the energy, but the straightjacket holds me fast. The more I fight, the tighter it feels, constricting like a snake around my chest.
Another snip. Then another. My cries turn to sobs, and the tears flow freely down my face. She ignores me and just works, yanking my head back when I try to pull away. My hair, my identity—it falls in uneven chunks, stripped from me, piece by piece.
By the time she’s done, the air feels colder, harsher against my exposed scalp. My sobs have turned into quiet, gasping whimpers as I sit slumped against the wall, shaking.
Jess steps back, brushing her hands off like she’s finished a chore. The scissors clatter onto a nearby tray, and she gazes at me with a cruel smile, satisfaction glinting in her eyes.
“You look better already,” she says with a mocking tone, tilting her head to admire her work.
I can’t even respond as I curl into myself, cornering into the wall until I’m a ball on the padded floor. My tears drip onto the white fabric of the straightjacket as I bury my face into my knees, muffling my broken weeps.
“Rest now, Raven,” Jess murmurs, her voice grossly sweet again, like a lullaby turned sinister. “You’ll need your strength for what’s coming next.”
Suddenly she pauses, reaching over and she suddenly grabs my Mom’s necklace. She yanks and snaps it off my neck and I gasp like I’ve lost a part of me.
“You wont be needing that!” she chirps, and I start wondering if all these doctors are more psychotic than the patients.
I shoot her a harsh glare, a death warning because I fucking mean it. I’m coming for that bitch first. She smirks before walking away, my Mom’s necklace tucked in her pocket.
The door clicks shut behind her, the heavy lock sliding into place and I feel like lay there for what feels like hours, my eyes staying shut, tears slipping through my lashes as I try to shut it all out—the blinding light, the suffocating room. But I can’t shut out my thoughts.
Ty.
His name lingers in my mind. I can almost see him, smell him, the way his rough hands felt against my skin, the way his voice could steady me even when everything else felt like it was spiraling out of control. Is he out there now? Is he looking for me? Or has he given up?
I try to push the thought away, but it keeps coming back, constant. What if he’s hurt? What if they’ve taken him too? Or worse, what if he’s gone—left me behind to rot in this padded fucking nightmare, where my screams are swallowed by the walls?
I bite my bottom lip, “No, that’s not him.” I whisper.
I picture him breaking down doors, his jaw clenched, his eyes dark with rage. He wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t rest until he finds me. Until we’re together again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ty
The forest is a maze of towering trees and thick underbrush, each step an act of will as exhaustion claws at my body. The dull ache in my leg feels bone-deep, and the sharp edge of hunger gnaws at my stomach, but I push on, driven by a fire that won’t let me fucking stop. Every muscle screams for relief, and when I finally collapse against a tree by the river, it feels like defeat is pressing down on me.
The river hums faintly, mocking me with its steady flow, as if to say I’ll never find what I’m fucking looking for here. I tip my head back against the bark and close my eyes for a moment.
The memory surfaces again vividly—the half-crazed ramblings of a man on the second floor of Sacred Heights, who’d called himself a historian, a self-proclaimed expert on places like Sacred Heights. I remember the way his voice dipped to a whisper and how he talked about underground tunnels built long before the asylum even existed.
At the time, I didn’t give a fuck. His words seemed like the delusions of someone trying to spin a story that made sense to him, but now, that conversation might be the only fucking lifeline I have.
