Mother wasn’t looking when a little boy came up behind me and shoved me over.Sharp pains shot through my palms and up my arms when I hit the ground with a clomp.I looked up to see who did it, to find who I would tell my mother about, and that's when I saw the chain-lady.The woman in black was holding the irons with a hard fist, leashing the other in place as she thrashed and gnarled, fighting for her release.Ready to chew the little boy into pieces.
He didn’t mean to hurt me—at least, that’s what I thought—but the chain lady didn’t care.She bit and snapped with black foamy drool that splattered in the dirt, wanting to eat the boy.Just like she does when I feel threatened now—she viciously protects me.
I’ll remember that day forever.Looking up from the ground to see a woman drenched in a terrifying darkness.She wasn’t wearing pants like Mother would, or gowns ghosts glide around in.No, it was a second skin so dark it absorbed the light—gobbled it up, held it hostage in the same way she gripped the restraints.Nearly every inch of her body was covered, from her bare feet up to her neck where it faded in a soft ombré over her jawline—simultaneously haunting and ethereal.
She wasn’t real then, just a figment of my overactive imagination.My brain had conceptualized fear and loneliness into a being I could place blame on.When she reached for me, the onyx veneer stretched down her slender arms to five skeleton-thin fingers beckoning me to take her silent offering.Wind swirled through loose strands of her dark hair as chunks moved like oily snakes before whipping over her delicate face.
Back then, I didn’t know any better.I had no idea who or what she was, but the chain-lady was going to hurt the little boy if I didn’t save him from the monster.I took her hand and my whole world shifted.The sun became a black hole, my small body shook and thrashed in the dirt, sending people into hysteria around me.I had to keep him safe.The lady in black promised me she’d never release the monster and the monster would be mine to control.To send after people who deserved to be punished for wickedness and to hunt those who harmed me.
I didn’t realize my mistake for several years as I became the monster.I was the unrecognizable and violent being chained to a master.
That day?She took over, watching the bloody one saunter in to keep me young and beautiful, primp and proper, make me appear human-like as the chain-lady puppeteered me.Her skinless fingers laced through my marionette strings so tight they slashed the muscle left behind and oozed blood down the strands, staining me in the process.I’ve been controlled, conquered, and owned by ruthless women who I now drug into comas with any pill I can get my hands on.
Since then, I’ve learned their names, mannerisms, and at times used their varying strengths to ensure my survival.Just ask my parents; they were shocked, but not quite as petrified as Uncle Lucien.He saw the demon just as I have—her real face, not the one that is the splitting image of my birth mother.Jezebel had us both fooled.She, for the lack of better terms, put the fear of God into him and we’ve not seen him since.
He may have disappeared but I’m still afraid he will return to finish what he started.To twist and manipulate me into the very same killer he is—force me to harm my family by breaking their minds and bodies just as mine has been destroyed.They don’t deserve to be ripped to pieces for existing near me.
Let him try.I’m older now, stronger in more ways than one, and have since nourished the relationship with my voices—somewhat.
Though I sit here because I’m fascinated, I took this class to help me understand myself, and others like me.For the most part, I’m here to find a reset button, the perfect chemical composition to kill the voices and wipe out memories that leave me in night sweats.My degree itself?All I simply want is my name on one of those fancy prescription pads, to heal myself, and for my uncle—because if you can’t beat a psychopath, poison him.
I’m kidding—that’s called premeditated murder, and we’re too pretty to gallivant through prison like my mom and dad have.I love them, but that’s two sets of old footprints I won’t follow.Though, Bob Ross did put it perfectly—happy little accident.
“Alright, class.Any questions over the assignment due Monday?”Professor Jacobson asks.
His gray-streaked brows need a trim, resting like a pair of chrome caterpillars behind the black rim of his glasses.Old, tired eyes glance across the student body, checking for raised hands and seeing none.Silently waiting for someone to actively engage in discussion and give life back to the classroom has worn him down.I would, but I can’t.
A gum-chewing, cud-grinding, prissy girl from New York speaks up.“Professor, I have a question.”
“Of course, Miss Adams, go on.”
“Do you think it’s appropriate for psychopaths to attend your class, or does the university scrape the bottom of the barrel in order to keep the program funded?”Students giggle at her question.
“I’m not following, Miss Adams.Elaborate.”
She shifts forward, leaning her bony elbows on the coated particle board desktop with a stupid grin.
“Psychopaths shouldn’t have access to the material in your class.It could make them more unpredictable and unstable.So, why isshehere?”
Students around her grin and look back at me—this shit isn’t new.I’ve been dealing with it my entire academic career; it’s easier to ignore it than respond.What happens if I do and I go too far?Like, hurt someone who only said mean things and who I’d never see past graduation.I can’t do that.That’s not me, that’s not Sadie.
“I’m not sure who you’re referring to, Miss Adams.To answer your question, everyone is welcome to this material as scientific studies are public record.Regardless if someone were to enroll in this course, they are privy to information that may or may not improve their mental health,” he answers dryly.
“So, we’re letting psychos treat psychos.That’s not healthy at all—that perpetuates a cycle of misdiagnoses and inadequate treatment.Psychos can’t treat themselves because they’re too fucked in the head to understand what they're seeing and believing isn’t real.That’s negligence, Professor.”
“Miss Adams, this is class.Not a framework for medical or psychological treatment.Perhaps your concerns are misplaced.I’d focus on writing your term paper and praying to the heavens you score high enough on the final exam to pass.If there were a psychopath in this classroom, they’re the least of your worries.”
The room bursts with laughter, mostly from the boys.The girls, though, especially Chelsea Adams, look back at me and glare.
Nearly four years here and I still can’t speak up.If I do, some people may never make it home.
Chapter two
Sunshine
Four Years Ago
Thisplaceismassive;the biggest campus I’ve seen in my seventeen short years.It dwarfs my high school by a few buildings, my Sunday school, the church, and my childhood home combined—none compare to the sheer size of this place.
