Chapter 26: Twenty Four - Believing

Believing

Parish:

The crimson liquid seeping out of his skin was a stark contrast against the immaculately white room. White walls; white bed sheets; white floors; white pillow cases. Everything was white.

Parish looked around frantically for something to staunch the blood-flow; to wipe away the blood. He cradled his wounded arms close to his body, desperately trying to make sure that he didn’t spill a single drop of blood on anything that would stain. The last thing he needed was any authority figures assuming he’d started self-harming again.

After a quick glance around the room, Parish realized that it offered nothing that would aid him; so he did the only thing he could think of and took off his shirt. Wrapping the material around his arms, he thanked the heavens for the fact that he’d worn a black shirt. There would be a few darker patches on the shirt, but he could think of an excuse for those later.

Through the vent, he heard October’s horrified voice. “They cut you? Where?”

“My arms.” He replied, pressing the cloth tighter against his skin. He didn’t want to tell her about the jagged cut that ran across his stomach. She already sounded terrified as it was; he didn’t need to scare her more. “They’ve made it look like I’ve done it to myself.”

“So, they aren’t that deep then?” The tremor in her voice made Parish wonder what the voices had been doing to her on the other side of the wall. There was a throaty quality to her voice that hadn’t been there before. Had they strangled her? If they were capable of crossing over to his room and slicing his arms, who knew what kind of torture they put her through on a daily basis.

An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach as he thought about all the horrors the girl must have had to endure throughout her life. When he’d first discovered her self-harming tendencies, he’s assumed that she’d been doing it because she was depressed, like he had been. But what if the voices drove her to commit those acts? What if they’re the ones who hurt her in the first place?

“No, they’re not.” He lied, staring at the deep, burning gashes that adorned his arms. Another pang of worry hit him as he realized that he wouldn’t be able to hide the marks. The voices had cut him all along his forearm and his shirt was a short sleeved one. How would he explain this to Darren?

“Don’t lie to me.” Despite the stinging in his arms and stomach, Parish couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow in mild amusement. How had she been able to tell he was lying?

“I’m not.” He suppressed a wince when he applied pressure onto the gash on his tummy with the bundled up t-shirt.

“Parish.”

Suddenly, he was compelled to tell her the truth about the extent of his wounds. In the back of his mind, he wondered why that was. She hadn’t said anything remotely profound; she hadn’t threatened him or pleaded with him – she’d just, sternly, said his name.

Maybe she’s just one of those people you can’t lie to.

He sighed and, ignoring the impulse to tell her the truth, said “Don’t worry about it.”

“But—”

He felt the vein in his temple start to throb slightly. The girl pushed his buttons more than anyone else ever had before; voices or no voices, she certainly had a way of bringing out the unpredictability of his moods. “Drop it October.” He was pleasantly surprised when his tone was a mix of gruff anger and rigidness.

“Fine.” She responded with an exasperated sigh. A muted thud followed.

Parish took the temporary silence as an opportunity to check on his wounds. Now that the bleeding had stopped, he could fully see the extent of the damage the voices had done.

It wasn’t a pretty sight.

With most of the blood out of the way, Parish was presented with long, fairly deep cuts in his flesh that looked amazingly a lot like the ones he’d used to give himself back when he used to cut – only these new ones were a little longer. There were also, Parish noted in frustration, four on each arm.

It unnerved him how much the voices knew about his past. How long had they been watching him?

“I’m sorry.” There was a hitch in October’ words, like she was holding back a sob. Or a hiccup. One of the two.

“For what?” Parish demanded, trying to make his tone as light as he possibly could through the pain. The voices had disappeared as soon as they’d finished cutting him, so his mood was more manageable. “You didn’t do anything.”

“I told you.” She replied woefully. “They didn’t want me to tell you. I shouldn’t have told you.”

“So? What were you supposed to do? Keep it a secret?” He could feel his temper starting to rise again.

“Maybe I should have. Nothing good ever comes from me disobeying them. Innocent people just get hurt.”

He’d already prepared a snarky comeback, but something about October’s words made his own die on his lips. Beneath the obvious layer of dejected frustration that coated her words, there was something more. It was raw, untouched anguish – pain that she’d buried somewhere deep inside herself. It wasn’t obvious, but it was there; pulsing underneath unsaid words.

Did it have something to do with the accident Sid had mentioned before?

He didn’t ask.

“According to Larkson,” He said instead, with a small chuckle, “I’m not all that innocent, so there’s really nothing for you to worry about.”

When she replied, she sounded more irritated than Parish had felt not more than a minute ago. “It’s not funny, Parish.” She snapped, and he couldn’t help but wince at the anger in her tone. He’d heard her annoyed, he’d heard her sarcastic, he’d heard her verbally bitch-slap a housemate at breakfast – but he hadn’t heard that particular blend of hatred and frustration in her voice before. “This is mild compared to what they could’ve done to you.”

“I’m not scared of them.” He shrugged, tossing the soiled t-shirt aside. He’d sleep shirtless tonight but he’d have no choice but to wear it if an Institute official dropped in. Hopefully, they’d both be allowed to leave their rooms for a shower and a change of clothes when morning came.

“You should be. You have no idea what they’re capable of.”

He didn’t; but from the way she was worrying, he could tell that she knew completely well.

He remained silent for a while, fighting an internal battle over whether or not to say the words that were on his mind. A minute later, he decided to do it. He’d already accepted that he had some strange, unexplainable connection to a few voices that had tormented the girl for years; what did he have to lose?

“You can’t let them control you, October. I get that you’re worried about the people around you getting hurt; but do you seriously think this whole suffering-in-silence routine you’ve got going on is going to make things easier? It’s not. It’s just going to drive you insane, one day at a time. You’ve got to stop letting them control you.” He took a deep breath, faintly surprised at the fact that she hadn’t interrupted him. “They didn’t want you to tell me that my DID is connected to their appearances, but you did it anyway. I’m fine now aren’t I? Yeah, I’m a little injured, but that’s it. It’s not like they could kill me or whatever.”

Her response came as a threadbare whisper. “You’d be surprised.”

It felt as if she’d dumped a bucket of cold water over his head. You’d be surprised. The hushed words rang like a bell in his mind; it shook the entire image of her that he’d built up in his head over the past forty-two hours. How much pain had she gone through? How much pain was she concealing from everyone? Had the voices killed someone she cared about – cared enough about to disobey them? Was that it? Was the accident that sent her spiraling?

A cold shiver, that had nothing to do with either the presence of the voices or his own MPD taking over, crept up his spine.

“I’ll be fine, October.” He assured her softly when no other words would come to mind. “I promise.”

He heard a shaky breath through the vent. “You don’t—”

“I get it.” He insisted, knowing what she’d been about to say. Suddenly, the florescent light that illuminated the room went off, signaling Lights Out. “I may not know all the details, but get it. And I’m promising you that I’ll be fine, okay?” There was a muffled frump as he blindly reached for his shirt and tossed it onto the bed.

“Now stop worrying about me and go to sleep.” He ordered firmly, yet gently. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

And with that, Parish climbed up onto the uncomfortable bed and lay motionlessly in it; his head churning from the events of the day. A yawn he hadn’t realized he’d been suppressing crept its way out and only then did he realize how exhausted he’d been.

The last thing he heard before his eyes drooped shut was a somber “Good night, Parish.”