I walk the grounds of Glendown, sedated. My tongue fried, my pride lacerated. The residents gather like packs of zombies—shuffling, mumbling, and pulling at their clothes—curbed by the medication they’ve been given. Today I’m one of them. Chemically coshed. Mouth numb. Head like a freakin’ hot-air balloon. Slashes of hysteria keen to remind me that I’m only two steps away from unbalance. I glance at the rose brick wall. A lone blackbird lifts a black wing.
I want to go home, Dolly whines, her tiny fingers fat and throbbing from the adult dose of medication.
Don’t worry, I say, cutting across the lawn to the path, we’re heading back home now. Oneiroi will call Jack later and tell him we’re sick again and we can stay in bed.
Again? Oneiroi asks.
Again, I say.
You can’t keep calling in sick, she demands, or he’ll fire you.
Who cares? I say.
Glendown’s windows feel like unsleeping eyes on me, vigilant and still, a sense of unease creeping up my back. I look at the menacing rain-filled clouds and exit the grounds.
A Tube ride.
A walk.
I am stalked all the way home by my Stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid-ness, like a shadow, until I finally turn the key to my front door—the Fouls insisting all the while that I climb the stairs. Reach under my bed. The blade already waiting for me.
I watch the familiar red slide out.
Deeper, the Fouls insist, adding the silver letter opener to my collection of strange weapons.