Chapter 7 - The Sanctuary of Nails
The residential facility in Surrey looked less like a wellness clinic and more like a converted nineteenth-century sanitarium.
The windows were fitted with exterior iron security grates to prevent "unauthorized wandering."
The walls were painted a dull, institutional sage green.
There was no television in the recovery room.
There was no radio.
There was only the ticking of a mechanical brass clock mounted on the wall above the double door.
Tristan and Chloe were placed in twin hospital beds separated by three feet of cold linoleum floor.
The room smelled faintly of carbolic soap and boiled turnip.
"Nurse!" Chloe whined from her mattress, clutching her throbbing collarbone.
"I need ice for my face!"
"And I need someone to wash my hair!"
"My followers are going to think I've disappeared!"
The door swung open with a loud thud.
Matron Gertrude marched into the room pushing an aluminum utility cart.
On the tray sat two bowls of lukewarm, unflavored oatmeal porridge and two small paper cups containing generic chewable antacids.
"Lunchtime," Matron Gertrude announced.
Tristan glared at the bowl with utter disgust.
"What is this slop?"
"Where are the prescribed narcotic painkillers from the hospital pharmacy?"
"My leg feels like it's being ripped apart by wild dogs!"
Matron Gertrude set the metal tray down with a loud clang.
"Your wife provided an extensive medical history to our intake department, Mr. Montgomery."
"She noted that you have a severe, documented family susceptibility to synthetic opioid addiction."
Tristan’s jaw dropped.
"What?!"
"That is an absolute lie!"
"I don't have an addiction!"
"I need morphine!"
Matron Gertrude picked up her clipboard, consulting her notes with icy satisfaction.
"Your legal guardian has instructed us to utilize non-addictive holistic pain management protocols."
"Chew your antacids."
"Drink your warm water."
"And focus your mind on positive physiological recovery."
"You monster!" Chloe screamed, trying to kick her sheets away.
"I am going to sue this facility into oblivion!"
"I will make sure you spend the rest of your life cleaning public toilets!"
Matron Gertrude didn't even blink.
She walked over to Chloe's bed, picked up the thin fleece blanket that had fallen to the floor, and folded it into a rigid, immaculate square.
"Threatening medical staff is a direct violation of residential custody guidelines."
"No afternoon recreation yard privileges for forty-eight hours."
Chloe stared at her in utter disbelief.
"Recreation yard?"
"I can't even stand up, you lunatic!"
"Then you won't miss it, will you?" Matron Gertrude replied evenly.
She turned to Tristan, who was sweating through his coarse cotton nightshirt.
"Your wife sent a message from Seattle, Mr. Montgomery."
Tristan looked up, his eyes bloodshot and wild with desperation.
"What did she say?"
"Tell me what Reese said!"
Matron Gertrude pulled a piece of folded paper from her pocket and read it aloud with complete clinical detachment:
"Dear Tristan."
"I hope Matron Gertrude is keeping your fever down."
"Remember when you told me that going to the emergency room in pajamas would embarrass the family name?"
"Remember when you said an ambulance was an unnecessary luxury?"
"I thought you would appreciate the simplicity of a modest, private recovery."
"Don't worry about Leo's medical trust."
"The police are currently assisting me with the administrative paperwork."
"Rest well."
"You have a very long road ahead of you."
Tristan thrashed his head against the thin feather pillow, letting out a guttural howl of pure rage.
"She set me up!"
"The police know!"
"She tricked me into signing the intake guardianship!"
"Quiet!" Matron Gertrude snapped, striking the aluminum tray with her wooden ruler.
The sharp crack echoed through the room like a gunshot.
Both Tristan and Chloe flinched, falling completely silent.
"Bed rest begins at twelve o'clock."
"Silence is mandatory until the five-o'clock temperature inspection."
"If I hear another sound from this room, I will confiscate your pillows."
She turned, walked out of the room, and closed the heavy wooden door behind her.
The click of the brass deadbolt outside sounded like the closing of a tomb.
Tristan lay staring at the ceiling, listening to the agonizingly slow tick of the mechanical clock.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Every second reminded him of the hallway in Seattle.
Every second reminded him of his wife shivering on the guest bathroom floor.
May you like
The hunter had become the specimen.
And the walls were closing in.
