The Fake Lunatic: I Played Crazy To Bury My Brother

The morning porridge, with its rancid, oaten stench, made my stomach clench.

I leaned over the plastic bucket in the corner of my cell, heaving until my throat felt scraped raw and tasted of copper.

Three years of forced chemical cocktails at the black site had ravaged my stomach lining.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand just as the steel deadbolt clicked open.

Chloe swaggered into the room, a sheaf of thick legal documents in one hand and a sleek black fountain pen in the other.

"Sign them," she demanded, dropping the papers onto my lap.

I stared at the blood-oath territory transfer agreements.

These pages would hand over every legitimate front and illicit territory my father had built straight to Julian and Dante.

I reached for the pen, but I willed a tremor to begin deep in my shoulder, a calculated palsy that traveled down my arm until my fingers vibrated so uncontrollably that I knocked the pen from Chloe's grasp.

It clattered across the concrete floor.

I let out a pathetic, breathy gasp and grabbed my own wrist, acting as if I could not control my own muscles.

"Stop faking, you psycho," Chloe snapped.

A tearing sensation, as if my hair were being pulled out by the roots, shot through my scalp. It was followed by the whistle of a heavy diamond ring grazing my cheek, leaving a thin line that began to seep a taste of rust.

"Sign the damn papers."

I whimpered, letting my eyes roll back slightly.

My hand slammed against the documents, my spasming fingers catching the edge of the thick paper and tearing it down the middle.

Chloe shrieked in anger.

She slapped me across the face, the edge of her heavy diamond ring cutting deep into my cheek.

"You have three days, Nia," she spat, her face hovering inches from mine.

"If you do not sign these by then, I will have Dr. Vance bring his little shock machine right into this bedroom."

She stormed out, leaving the torn papers scattered on the floor.

I waited until the sound of her footsteps faded completely down the corridor before I let my hands fall still.

I touched the fresh cut on my cheek, feeling the warm blood on my fingertips.

The blood was real, but the tremors were mine to command. I had just bought myself three more days.

Later, in the dead of night, I sat huddled in the corner of the room, obsessively twisting my fingers together in a display of madness.

The steel door creaked open again.

Julian stepped into the dim, flickering light.

He smelled of expensive whiskey and the cloying sweetness of Chloe's perfume.

He crouched down in front of me, his large, warm hands reaching out to gently unweave my tangled fingers.

"What are you doing, Nia?" he asked, his voice a low, deceptive purr.

I kept my eyes fixed on the floor.

"Punishing myself," I stammered, rocking forward in a broken rhythm.

"I made the lady of the house angry. I tore the paper. Bad hands."

Julian sighed, a sound of heavy, fabricated sympathy.

He stroked my tangled hair, the intimate touch making my skin crawl with revulsion.

"Just sign the papers tomorrow, sweetheart," he whispered.

"Then all the bad things will stop."

The next morning, the heavy door opened again.

Dr. Vance walked in, carrying his black medical bag, flanked by Dante and Julian.

"Time for your evaluation, Nia," Dr. Vance said, his tone devoid of any medical ethics.

My body reacted before my mind could stop it.

A deep, conditioned terror seized my limbs.

I scrambled backward, pressing myself hard against the damp, freezing wall, my chest heaving with short, panicked breaths.

"Hold her down," Dante ordered, his expression unchanged.

Julian and a guard stepped forward, grabbing my flailing arms and pinning me to the cold floor.

Dr. Vance pulled out a pair of medical shears and cut the thin hospital gown straight up the middle.

The cold air hit my bare skin like a blow.

My arms and torso were exposed to the harsh glare of the overhead light.

A horrifying canvas of starburst electroshock burns, dark purple ligature marks from leather restraints, and jagged bloodletting scars covered every inch of my prominent ribs and sunken stomach.

I was emaciated, my bones pushing sharply against my sickly pale skin.

Julian stared at my ruined chest.

For a fraction of a second, a flicker of something dangerously close to genuine shock crossed his cold, statuesque features.

"Are these wounds infected, Victor?" Julian asked, his tone deliberately neutral.

Dante scoffed from the doorway.

"It is necessary treatment, Julian. Do not get soft now."

Dr. Vance ran a freezing stethoscope over my scarred chest, ignoring my shivering.

"The thermal burns are healing as expected," Dr. Vance muttered, already packing his instruments away.

Just then, Chloe walked into the room, wrinkling her perfectly contoured nose at the smell of antiseptic.

Her gaze snagged for half a second on the charred brands of my half-naked body. She held her breath without thinking, a faint swallowing sound in her throat, before her eyes darted away and she sneered in disgust.

She walked straight to Julian, possessively wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her chest against his back right in front of me.

"Let us go, baby," Chloe whined, burying her face in his shoulder.

"It smells like death in here."

Julian did not push her away.

He let her lead him out into the dimly lit hallway without a backward glance.

I lay shivering on the floor, pulling the torn edges of my hospital gown together to cover myself.

Before they left the room, Dante grabbed Dr. Vance by the collar of his white coat.

I heard them perfectly through the cracked door.

"She tore the papers yesterday," Dante hissed, his voice a venomous whisper.

"Speed up the signature process."

"I do not care what experimental chemicals you have to pump into her veins."

"Make her docile enough to hold a pen by the end of the week."

I closed my eyes, counting the days in my head like the ticking of a bomb. The chemicals would come faster now. But Dante's impatience was a blade that cut both ways—the more he rushed, the sloppier he would become.

Five days left until the trust thawed.