The Gray Institute (The Gray Institute Trilogy Book 1) (2 page)

Climbing up to balance on the window ledge, she slowly swings her right leg over the frame. She places her foot on the outside ledge whilst she grips the window from both sides, her fingertips clenched white against the plastic. She reassures herself that her footing is sound before placing her left foot fully on the edge and tries not to look down.

Clinging to the frame, she dangles her leg over the edge of the sill, lowering it towards the porch until she feels the tiled roof on the sole of her shoe.

The next part is tricky as it involves letting go, she's already shaking with the effort of holding her weight and her head feels fuzzy and strange. She hesitantly scrapes her left foot along the ledge, inching it forward until only her heel balances her weight on the edge of the cracked sill. With one last push, she lets her foot fall and just before it hits the roof, releases her grip on the frame, bending at the knees as she lands, clutching at the tiles.

She's made it unharmed. Now, crouched on the roof of the porch, she can jump to the ground; but the tiles are old and loose and she stumbles as she leaps, landing dangerously on her side atop the long grass.

She quickly pulls herself to her feet and checks for injuries. Though her right arm throbs from the impact, other than a few imminent bruises she's unscathed, and she grabs the duffel bag from the floor, throwing it over her shoulder and hurrying up the pathway.

As she makes her way across the road, her parents still slumbering soundly, she feels a sense of triumph. The padlock on her bedroom door hadn't served its purpose. Ultimately, nothing her parents had done could have stopped her from leaving.

She can and will do as she pleases, with or without their consent, and without their interference. But for a brief moment, she pauses and glances back over her shoulder. Her parents' room remains dark, the violet curtains drawn. Her escape is still unbeknown to them and she can't help but picture their reactions when they wake to find her gone.

Her father will be furious, scouring the gardens – and probably the city – for her, but she'll be far away by then. Her mother...

She feels a slight contraction near her heart, a sharp pang of something – sympathy? Regret?

What it is she doesn't know, all she knows is that the image of her mother's heartbroken face, her silent but reluctant acceptance, is almost more than she can bear. She tears her eyes from the window, forcing herself to walk away from the house before she can change her mind.

By the time she enters the next street, she's pushed her mother far from her thoughts. Her mind is awash with images of her new life in Liverpool with her new family; bohemians and free-spirits she'd met not so long ago. Those charismatic friends who refuse to trouble themselves or become tied down by the dull conventions of everyday life and instead; seek a life of pleasure, love and passion.

She thinks of nothing but the house they will share, the parties they'll have and the constant supply of that irresistible drug – her heroin.

The picture gradually blurs at the edges before it's replaced by an image of the same girl, but with some distinctive differences. Her hair has grown longer, reaching down to her back, but is now greasy and matted with knots. Her green eyes – once sharp and focussed – are now dull and staring, ringed by dark circles. Her cheeks are sunken, her skin is pasty and she's dangerously thin, lying slumped against a moth-eaten couch with another young girl at her feet. This girl is on her stomach, her dirty blonde hair hiding her face, bruises and scars pattern her arms.

A boy walks towards them, his shoe scrapes against the blonde girl's calf but she doesn't move or speak. He kneels down in front of the dark haired girl and waves a hand in her face, laughing as she stares straight ahead without so much as blinking. He ruffles her hair with his dirty hand before placing it possessively on her thigh, turning to talk to somebody else on the edge of the distorted picture.

The girl's eyes flicker slightly, just a fraction of an inch, but within them lies a deep and unrelenting shame. She seems to speak without moving, begging silently for someone – anyone – to free her from herself.

Chapter Two

A profound darkness surrounds me, not only in colour but in presence, as though the blackness itself is a physical being. I feel it move through me; plugging my ears, nose and throat – like stagnant smoke.

There is no bright light – the way I've heard death described – just an ominous darkness stretching on and on into eternity. For a moment, I entertain the idea that perhaps this is hell – or at the very least, purgatory – and the bright lights are reserved for Heaven-bound souls, far purer and more innocent than my own.

Maybe those mythical places aren't so mythical after all, it wouldn't be the strangest thing to have ever happened to me.

As the darkness consumes me, I hear a sound; faint and melodic, far off in the distance. A soothing soprano musical note, its tempo slow and steady, relaxing my muscles and my mind. As the music becomes louder, the darkness recedes and I experience a floating sensation, like a buoy in water. 

The note starts to change gradually, stooping in pitch and rising in volume until the black shifts to grey and another melody joins in – this one deeper and more bass line – creating a duet.

They take it in turns to play their verses, often one more lengthy than the other, in no particular rhythm or order and yet so perfectly in synchronisation.

I realise with a start that I can't be dead and a sense of disappointment, shame and anger wash over me, each feeling stronger than the previous.

Disappointment that the one thing I should have had complete control over – choosing how and when I die – has become just another bullet point to add to my list of failed endeavours.

Shame that my parents have likely been contacted and will eventually come to know every sordid detail of my life over the past two years.

And anger that I am undoubtedly lying in hospital bed with a team of highly trained, highly qualified doctors battling to save a life that I didn't want, when they should be dedicating their efforts to someone who not only wants, but
deserves
to live.

My suspicions are only confirmed when I realise that the beautiful symphonies aren't composed by musical instruments at all – they're voices; one male, one female. They're still indistinct and muffled, always followed by a long echo, but as time drags on I start to distinguish familiar words, and eventually whole sentences.

'She's too far gone,' the male's voice is nasal – his words pronounced with the utmost precision.

'You'll never bring her back and even if you do, she won't be the same. She's suffered too much brain damage, even you can't fix it.'

I know that I'm not brain damaged; here inside my mind I'm the same as I always was, and able to understand and interpret his words clearly. But I'm perfectly happy for him to convince his partner I'm past saving – it's what I want, after all.

'She's not, I found her only moments after she'd fallen unconscious. I got her here as fast as I could.' The woman's voice is so beautiful it's easy to understand how I mistook it for a song. She sounds feisty and determined to save my life.

I start to panic. Maybe if I could open my eyes, find my voice, I could convince them. Assure them I'll only do the same again and again until I succeed. Warn them that they're only wasting their time.

I try to prise my eyes open but the lids are too heavy. The surrounding dark grey shifts again, the colour lightening to a dirty cream.

'Well, if you're sure. But if you get it wrong, you can be the one to answer to them.' The male says, his tone cynical and foreboding. 'Where did you find her anyway? She looks a mess.' He enquires, obviously noting my matted hair, dirty skin and ragged clothes. 

'In a doorway. Next to an empty syringe.'

And that's where you should have left me! I try to scream, but I can't even manage to open my mouth.

'And you're sure she has no-one?' The male asks, suspicion in his tone. His question means more than meets the ear.

'I'm sure, she's alone.' The female replies firmly, her voice closer.

'Well, you may as well get it over with.'

No! My mind is screaming in protest. How can thoughts be so difficult to communicate into words or even actions? My body won't do what my brain tells it to and I start to understand how it must feel to be paralysed. But I'm becoming more conscious by the second, my senses gradually returning to me.

I can feel the woman's touch on my arm; a slight pressure, cold hands, smooth skin.

It'll only be a few more seconds before I regain consciousness, am able to open my eyes, use my voice or at the very least, make facial expressions.

Something soft tickles my cheek, brushing against it over and over. A warm breeze is at my neck, sending a pleasurable shiver down my spine. But pleasure all too quickly turns to pain as a knife pierces the delicate skin just to the right of my throat.

Wincing, I start to doubt myself. Perhaps this isn't a hospital..? Or maybe this is a new technique – injecting adrenaline straight into my veins?

A burning sensation grips me, travelling quickly from my neck and spreading throughout my body, up to my head and down to my chest. It's as strong as a red hot poker and it intensifies within seconds. It's chemical, like acid pumping through my veins, like my blood has turned to molten lava. It takes over my body and my mind. I can think of nothing but the pain. It's worse than over-dosing.

A thousand times worse.

The burning is most painful in my head; my brain is ablaze inside my skull, utterly devoured by flames. I feel it take over and I try to defeat it but I'm running out of strength. I'm screaming inside, begging for relief as it throbs and pulses, moving through the individual sections of my brain until I can no longer think at all.

What little fight I have left in me dies and I give up, surrendering myself to pain in its purest form. And just as I resign to the realisation that I'll spend eternity in agony – the pain suddenly stops.

I relax instantly, breathing deeply though I'm not out of breath. My mind goes silent and my body sighs with relief. All around me is quiet; the voices have disappeared. Perhaps the treatment went wrong and they've simply left me to die. Either way, I don't care, so long as the pain has stopped.

I hear it suddenly; a soft rustling accompanied by a high-pitched, scraping noise. A strange scent fills my nostrils; sweet, like candy or an exotic fruit but nothing I can identify. I can smell other things too, familiar things; like metal and leather, paint and wood. A scent much like cloves fills the air from my right and mingles with the sweet candy smell.

'Eve?' My name startles me as the female voice speaks calmly. The sound is still the same yet so completely different. It's even more beautiful, light and smooth floating through my ear.

'Eve, you can open your eyes now.'

*

I wake in a small box room, encased by steel – steel walls, steel floors; even the bed I lie on is made of steel with a thin cotton blanket tossed over it. My wrists and ankles are bound by leather straps, buckled tightly with brass. There are two people present with me; one male, the other female. A light bulb hangs directly above my head and a wooden chair stands to my immediate right.

All of this I know without even opening my eyes.

All of this I know because I can smell it.

'Eve?' Her voice startles me again and I snap my eyes open to blink furiously in the light. I stare up at a plain white, plaster board ceiling. At a glance, its surface is smooth and matte; but on closer inspection, I notice the tiny imperfections – a crack, a scratch, a stray thumb print. But despite its flaws, the plaster is perfect; the most magnificent solid matter I have ever laid eyes on.

I sense that the woman with the pretty voice is very close to me; I hear her clothes rustle as she reaches down to undo the straps binding my wrists. Her skin brushes against mine; ice cold and velvet smooth. She is nervous, her breath is ragged, but is it me making her nervous?

Surely not.

'Eve, I need you to sit up very slowly. Do not strain yourself, you need to adjust gradually.' The woman's voice is crisp and clear with a strong, upper-class English accent. Her presence comforts me and bizarrely, I feel as though I trust her, despite the fact that I've not yet laid eyes on her. I do as she asks, steadily hoisting my upper body into a seated position to fully observe my new surroundings.

The room is sparse and bland, desperately lacking in decoration, yet I've never seen anything as exquisite in my entire life. The air itself sparkles and I glance up at the uncovered light bulb. Within the clear glass is a thin, curled wire; glowing white hot as the air surrounding it crackles and fizzes – creating kinetic energy before my very eyes.

Firm hands upon my shoulders break my concentration and I tear my gaze away from the bulb, tilting my head back to stare at the most magnificent human being ever to have graced the Earth. Her rich, mahogany brown hair falls in immaculate ringlets, coming to an end just below her shoulders. Her porcelain white skin is without a single flaw or blemish, her deep sea blue eyes are framed by long black lashes.

'Who are you?' I breathe, staring transfixed at the woman, startled by the strange sound which appears to be my voice. It's nothing like the manly, too-deep pitch I remember; replaced by a husky, sultry tone. The Goddess smiles and my world lights up as the grin reaches her kind blue eyes.

'My name is Diana,' she speaks softly and calmly, the sound a soothing lullaby. 'Diana Haddix. And this...' she gestures towards the doorway, to the man I'd forgotten all about. 'Is Malachy Beighley.'

Malachy Beighley stands to my right, his sleeveless arms folded across a muscular chest. His shoulder-length platinum blond hair sweeps across his left eye; half disguising the violent scowl he wears on his beautiful face. He – like her – is some sort of God; the same flawless skin, piercing ice blue eyes and cheekbones to die for. But his demeanour is so unlike his female companion; whilst she is warm, tender and softly-spoken – he is cold, distant and impatient.

'We have to go, Diana.' His nasal voice is demanding and authoritative but she ignores it, staring at me with concern in her eyes.

'Are you okay, Eve?' She asks, taking hold of my shoulders once again. In the depths of her irises lies a colour I have no name for, a colour entirely unknown to me before now. I nod my head slowly, catching a whiff of what I can only assume is my hair. It turns my stomach; a churning concoction of grease, cigarette smoke and stale water. Glancing down at my hands, what was once a harmless bit of dirt and grubbiness is now an infestation beneath my fingernails. A clear imprint of my silhouette clings to the white sheet beneath me, a trail of filth and germs.

I claw at my fingers, desperately rubbing my palms together in the hope that the friction will remove some of the dirt. Diana slips in front of me, enclosing her pristine hands gently around mine, seemingly oblivious to the contamination residing there.

'I know, Eve,' She nods patiently, her voice smooth like silk. 'All in good time. We have some things to attend to first.' She lifts a hand to touch my hair but I jerk away; I would burn with shame to see her perfect fingers come away covered in grime.

'For God's sake, Diana, he'll be waiting!' That impatient voice interrupts again and this time Diana concedes.

'I need you to stand up for me, Eve, can you do that?' She asks and I nod obediently, placing my feet on the floor.

I feel floaty as I stand; the concrete bounces beneath my worn trainers, like I've lost a considerable amount of weight and a strong gust of wind could carry me away. Diana wraps her fingers tightly around my left wrist as Malachy stands at my right and roughly grips my bicep. They frog march me forward, Diana a little more hesitant than Malachy, but her grip equally tight.

She pulls the door open to reveal a plain, white-washed corridor. The paint dried long ago but smells, to me, still fresh. The corridor is long, there are no windows, no pictures and the only doors – besides the one we've exited – are two steel ones belonging to a lift.

I realise with a start that I am indeed in a hospital – a psychiatric one. The signs all point to a mental facility; the bare rooms – stripped of any weapons or potentially harmful implements – the white walls, the straps on my wrists, the strange and painful procedure I'd endured. The only things serving to doubt my assumption are Diana and Malachy themselves. Neither of them looks fit to work in a psychiatric hospital; Diana with her tight black ribbed corset, Malachy with his long dark coat and Kohl-coated eyes.