The Gray Institute (The Gray Institute Trilogy Book 1) Read Online Free
Author: LeAnne Pearson
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.
Not exactly your typical doctors or nurses.
As they march me onwards – towards the ominous lift – a sense of panic washes over me; a paralysing fear. It's of no surprise to me that I've wound up in a psychiatric facility, or – as my old friend Davey used to call them – a nut house. I've been heading here for a long time. But now that I stand – flanked by two escorts – ready to meet my fate, my self-assurance fades, replaced by docile despair.
The drugs they've injected me with are strong; colours are vibrant and lurid, with every smear and imperfection in the pock-marked stone floor noticeable to me. I breathe in every scent as it passes by, strain to hear the slightest sounds. My senses appear heightened, my calmness enforced; I breathe slowly and steadily as I watch a fly groom its legs, perched on the wall more than twenty feet away.
My grubby old trainers give out a squeak as we reach the elevator doors, halting whilst Diana presses the Call button. We ride the lift in silence to the fourteenth floor, stepping out into another corridor, in stark contrast to the last. Dark wood panelling lines the lower half of the walls – shined and polished to perfection – whilst the upper half is decorated with oil paintings in elaborate gold frames, illuminated by crackling fire torches on either side.
Cautiously, I step out onto soft springy carpet, marvelling at the intricate art-work as my escorts guide me along. Some are of still life such as fruit and candles, others are portraits; an old man with cotton white hair in an armchair, a faithful dog at his feet. An elegant woman with
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.
Not exactly your typical doctors or nurses.
As they march me onwards – towards the ominous lift – a sense of panic washes over me; a paralysing fear. It's of no surprise to me that I've wound up in a psychiatric facility, or – as my old friend Davey used to call them – a nut house. I've been heading here for a long time. But now that I stand – flanked by two escorts – ready to meet my fate, my self-assurance fades, replaced by docile despair.
The drugs they've injected me with are strong; colours are vibrant and lurid, with every smear and imperfection in the pock-marked stone floor noticeable to me. I breathe in every scent as it passes by, strain to hear the slightest sounds. My senses appear heightened, my calmness enforced; I breathe slowly and steadily as I watch a fly groom its legs, perched on the wall more than twenty feet away.
My grubby old trainers give out a squeak as we reach the elevator doors, halting whilst Diana presses the Call button. We ride the lift in silence to the fourteenth floor, stepping out into another corridor, in stark contrast to the last. Dark wood panelling lines the lower half of the walls – shined and polished to perfection – whilst the upper half is decorated with oil paintings in elaborate gold frames, illuminated by crackling fire torches on either side.
Cautiously, I step out onto soft springy carpet, marvelling at the intricate art-work as my escorts guide me along. Some are of still life such as fruit and candles, others are portraits; an old man with cotton white hair in an armchair, a faithful dog at his feet. An elegant woman with
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