"In a crucifixion ecstasy

Lying cross chequed in agony

Stigmata bleed, continuously

Holes in head, hands, feet and weep for me." — Bauhaus

The phone’s insistent ring tore Donna from a nightmare of suffocating darkness. Morning light slashed through broken blinds; the room, a cramped box of shadows, swam into focus. Posters for bands she hadn’t listened to in years peeled at the corners—Reign of Darkness, Blood Monsoon, Razorblade Halo, Darkfall’s Dragons—proof of a teenage rebellion extinguished in a handful of months. Other posters of anime series on the other side, bright contrast. Dust spun in the single shaft of light, catching on grime that never quite came clean.

Her mattress on the floor looked like the rest of her life: rumpled, unwilling. An upturned plastic tote did duty as a table, its surface a small chaos—an ashtray overflowing with butts, a half‑warm can of soda, empty beer bottles, a scatter of pill bottles.

<<Pill‑popper, just like Mommy,>> the wrongways voice hissed. “Mood stabilizers aren’t the same,” she told herself. <<Mommy took hers for moods, too. Only people say it’s different.>>

The phone kept ringing, splicing the silence. She fumbled by touch, thumb feeling the textured case, fingers clumsy with sleep. <<Don’t answer.>> The contact flashed: Asshole. She sighed, slid the green dot, held the phone to her ear. <<Sssslut.>> “Yeah?” Her voice scraped itself out. She blinked toward the blinds, dragged the back of her hand across her nose, sniffed.

“Flower, it’s Dad,” his voice came, a baritone strained into care but threaded with something else — control. Worry twisted into pressure. “You sound rough.”

“I was asleep.” The words were thin. “I’m… managing.” Ash on her tongue.

Mike paused on the line, the quiet heavy with unspoken shapes. “Listen, Donna. You’re not taking care of yourself down there. I can hear it in your voice.”

She pinched the phone between shoulder and cheek and counted cigarettes with a shaking hand. “I’ve said, like, ten words.” She checked on her fingers—ten. <<Eleven, Princess, counting “yeah?” Give in, and you can stop being a fucking failure at everything.>> She counted again and sighed.

“You’re isolating, drowning in grief. It’s not healthy, sweetheart. You need family.” His words came soft and sharp together.

<<Jump off the roof. I can work with your broken body.>> The voice inside pushed. Her resistance thinned. He might be right — she was drowning in the apartment’s silence, the absence of her mother a constant weight. “Dad,” she tried, the word foreign. “I… don’t want to go back.” <<At least the ones at the club are honest. At least they pay you to be something else.>>

He chuckled, dry and practiced. “Don’t you, sweetheart? Or are you afraid of what I might say? Afraid of what I might…think of you?”

Ice knifed through her chest. He knew about the club the desperate arithmetic of survival. <<You didn’t actually think he wouldn’t know, did you? Idiot.>> Faces flickered: bikers, leers, the backroads he’d know by name. “How… how do you know?” she whispered, already knowing the answer. «Did you actually ask that?»

“C'mon. I have ways,” he said, voice hardening. “And I’m not happy, Donna. Not happy at all. What kind of life is that? Dancing around in…well, you know.”

Donna flinched. The shame washed over her, a bitter tide. But it was far deeper than recent history. "It's none of your business," she spat, her voice rising. «You go, girl.» "I’m an adult now. I was taking care of Mom. Someone had to." <<That…could have gone better. Were you trying for brat?>>

“By selling yourself,” he scoffed. “That’s how you ‘took care’ of her? No wonder she dove deeper.”

The words cut cleaner than she expected. <<Leave it to the old man to twist the knife and snap it off. That’s how you do it…Flower.>> Bills, rent, the long list of her mother's addictions that had eaten them dry — these were the tides that had washed her onto the shore of the club: pills to wake, a bottle to sleep, stimulants, painkillers, weed.

“I was trying to help,” she said, the defiance fraying. “To make it. Here.”

"You don't have to survive like that anymore," he said, his voice softening. "Come home, Donna. Come back where you belong and let me take care of you. That's what family does. You can finish your last year of school. Everyone has a misstep. No one needs to know. It'll be our little secret."

So many. Donna felt a shiver crawl down her spine. «I’ll give you a pass on that.» His words were laced. He wasn't offering forgiveness; he was offering a carefully constructed façade of normalcy. Like always. The thought of returning to her hometown, of living under the same roof as her father, filled her with a dread that went beyond grief.

"That Parker boy is still pining after you. You were a good couple."

The illusion of a life that had never been who she was. “I…I need to think about it,” she stammered, voice cracking. She was stalling; she knew she should have been firmer, but the answer slipped away before thought could catch it. The wrongways voice didn’t need to think. «Danny Date-rape? Are you fucking kidding me right now?»

“Of course, sweetheart,” he said, voice dropping to a crawl that sent another shiver down her spine. “I miss you being around, Flower. Seeing you every day.”

«And there it is.» The phone slipped from numb fingers and clattered to the floor. Donna lay staring at the ceiling, his words looping like a bad record. The phrase hung heavy and wrong, dark and precise.

“Flower?” he called again. She snatched the phone and cut him off, then tossed the device onto the overturned tote and watched the black rectangle for a long beat.

«Just because nothing ever happened doesn't mean he didn't want it. They all want it.» "Shut up," she snapped. "Stop fucking with everything!" Cold floor met bare soles; the mattress behind her felt like a different life. "Just stop talking!" «End it already. For both our sakes.»

Nausea came in a wave and everything tilted. She stumbled to the bathroom, bent over the sink, and retched until the world steadied. When she lifted her head the mirror returned a map of scars across her shoulder — straight lines of razorblade kisses, a few crossed like tally marks. She traced them with a fingertip; each one held the memory of a night she’d tried to hold herself together.

In the glass, the Other hovered, faded and close, watching over her shoulder. Paler than flesh, hair long and straight, the color of washed lavender; black triangles marked brow and chin, two painted cheeks like old doll spots of blush. The ears flared wide and elvish; deep purple irises set in black, all violet and night, flicked over Donna’s face. The Other licked plum‑stained lips and smirked.

<<All you have to do is give in. Let me make it better.>> The words pressed without sound. <<Call me. Just a whisper.>> The Other’s arm wound around Donna; a tapered fingertip ghosted her jaw. <<C’mon, Flower…let me kiss it and make it better.>>

“Nothing happened,” she screamed. “Stop making it like something did.” <<Are you sure?>> “Yes! He just…he just…” <<Got oh-so-familiar as Mommy slipped further down her rabbit-hole. That’s a thing, Flower.>> “Stop calling me that! Why do you hate me so much?!” <<Because you keep me caged, you bitch! Just like you felt Daddy was doing to you. Church, pretty dresses, dates with 'perfect' boys like Date-Rape Danny. Only you escaped and I can’t!>> “You’re in my mind!” <<Am I?>>

Donna shook her head, gripped the doorframe, and spun back into the room and onto the bed. Fingers scrambling, she fished a pill bottle from the tote. <<Don’t you dare!>> Prying the cap, she shook two green capsules into her palm, and swallowed them dry. Her breath hitched; she closed her eyes and tried to count the slow breaths a girl at the club had shown her. <<Just like Mommy.>>

The call had yanked her from restless sleep. She’d been out late, drunk, trying to forget; she’d slept two hours at best. The last voice she wanted to hear had been her father’s.

The edge eased. Donna reached for the remote as if it were a lifeline. The cable bill was late. Broadcast only: morning news, Channel 10 bleeding in from Bastion. The anchor, a middle‑aged man she’d seen forever, spoke into the staged calm of the set.

“—nearly a month since the first reported incident, and Bastion police still have no leads on the painted vigilantes behind what some are calling a citywide spree.” A crime‑tape graphic slid in. “The attacks began with a group of young men left dead in a gruesome late‑night alley slaughter. Families say the victims were part of a social club and likely targeted for political beliefs. Police treat the murders as an apparent hate crime.”

The anchor shifted, paper rustling for props. “And yesterday, the manager at First Second Bank was assaulted in broad daylight and thrown into traffic, where he was killed by a delivery van. Witnesses describe the perpetrators as ‘costumed’—some calling it ‘Halloween gone wrong.' Chief Marlowe says the department is ‘investigating all angles,’ but no suspects yet. Residents remain divided: some call the vigilantes heroes; others fear escalation. More after the break.”

Words thinned into static. Donna slid back onto the mattress and dozed, the TV’s light painting the ceiling as the city outside moved into its steady morning rhythm.