Lifers: A Sapphic Dark Romance, page 1
Copyright © 2024 K.C. Blume
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by Brianna Garza with Modifying Monarch
Cover art by Dream Echo Designs
Formatting by Disturbed Valkyrie Designs
CONTENTS
Trigger Warnings
Author’s Note
Available Resources
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For anyone who just wants to be loved because of their mental illness, not in spite of it.
TRIGGER WARNINGS
Lifers is an adult dark romance that focuses on the relationship of two women. This story includes elements that may not be appropriate for some readers. The contents of this book are only intended for persons aged 18 and up and include the following:
Suicide
Self-harm
Mentions of blood
Murder
Mentions of miscarriage
Mentions of murder-suicide
Depression
Bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, narcissistic personality disorder, and other personality disorders not mentioned
Rape/sexual assault
PTSD
Orgasm during sexual assault
Sexual assault/rape by a medical professional
Electroshock therapy
Panic attacks
Negative self-image
Religious rhetoric
Possessive/jealous partner
Unprotected sex
Heterosexual sex
Sex in exchange for goods
Mentions of murder during sexual intercourse
Mentions of self-harm during sexual intercourse
Thigh riding
Rough blowjob
Knife play
Blood play
Mutilation
Edging
Voyeuristic/semi-public sex
Mentions of masturbation
Penetration with an object
Orgasm denial
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Please note that there are topics explored in this book relating to mental illnesses such as Bipolar Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and depression. The decisions and actions of the characters with these illnesses are exclusive to who they are and are not in any way a generalization of anyone with any of the named disorders. The behaviors of these characters are based solely on my personal experiences with these illnesses.
If you’re looking for a happy ending, I’m sorry to disappoint, but this may not be the story for you. Many of us suffering from the mental illnesses described in this book never find our happily ever after, and while it might hurt, love is always worth the pain. I hope that you find this book to be worth the pain as well.
AVAILABLE RESOURCES
You matter. Your safety and mental health matter. If you are at all triggered by the contents of this book, please make note of the resources listed below that are available to you.
United States
Dial 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Helpline, or visit their website to access other resources and chat with a specialist.
Call 1-800-656-4673 to reach the National Sexual Assault Hotline, or visit the RAINN website to access their resources and chat with someone directly.
Text CONNECT to 741741 to reach the Crisis Text Line, or visit their website for resources that may help guide you through thoughts of self-harm.
Call 1-866-488-7386 OR text START to 678-678 if you identify as LGBTQ+ to reach crisis support through The Trevor Project. You may also use the online chat feature on their website or access the other resources that they have available.
United Kingdom
Dial 116123 to reach Samaritans 24 hours a day, or visit their website to access other resources and ways to communicate with them.
Text SHOUT to 85258 to reach 24/7 confidential crisis support, or visit the Shout website for more resources.
Call 0300 330 0630 to reach Switchboard if you identify as LGBTQ+. This service is available from 10 am to 10 pm daily, and all phone operators identify as LGBTQ+. You may also use their chat service on their website.
Call 0808 500 2222 to reach Rape Crisis 24/7. You may also use their chat function on their website or access the other resources available.
PROLOGUE
BLAIR
You’d think red is my favorite color, the way I bring it to life. So dark and rich that it’s almost black as it flows directly from the source and stains my jeans. I wish now that I’d worn something more comfortable to die in, maybe a pair of sweatpants and my favorite hoodie. I’ve lived in that combination for years now, it only seems fitting.
Oh well, too late for regrets.
The orange pill bottle sitting on my nightstand shakes like a tambourine as it slips through my blood-slicked fingers. I only filled it a few days ago. I don’t know how many bitter little pills it will take to get the job done, but they give me a three-month supply at a time. How fucked is that? Give the girl with bipolar disorder and depression ninety coffin-shaped pills at the same pharmacy where she can buy a ten-pack of razors and see how creative she can get.
I don’t have the energy to be upset about it, though. My vision starts to blur before I can even get the cap off the bottle. The pills scrape down my throat, scratching and clawing their way to my stomach as I chug from the glass of tap water I’d filled to the brim. It spills down my chin and wets my shirt, dripping onto the floor.
All I want to do is lay in bed. That’s all I’ve wanted since the lows hit. It’s my safe haven, my comfort place.
Once the pills sit comfortably in my stomach, I do exactly that. I crawl into bed and pull the duvet up to my chin. The lights are out, the shades are drawn, and I’m wrapped up in darkness. An even blacker shade begins to melt into the edges of my vision. Every time I blink, it stains my eyesight like a spilled inkpot, so I just keep them closed. But even with my eyes shut, I can still see.
I see the face of every girl that I’ve ever tried to love, but something inside of me has fallen short. I see every man who has muddied my skin with unwanted touches. Their fingerprints still linger to this day. I relive every road trip, every concert, every late night spent at shitty dive bars with my friends—any moment that has made the fight worth it this far.
I’m tired, and I’m tired of being angry, so I let the pills lull me to sleep in a sea of black.
Death is a dreamless, smothering warmth. It’s the most protected I’ve felt in years, and it’s all the love I’ve been searching for.
1
BLAIR
Ipull up in front of Elsberry State Psychiatric Institution in the back of a private ambulance on an overcast morning. The threat of rain sits on the horizon—a fitting forecast for the occasion.
The gown that they gave me back at the hospital never feels like enough to actually cover me up. I’m always left so paranoid that I’m about to flash either the paramedic or the armed officer who sits at the back of that bus with me. It isn’t enough to deter me from getting myself into this situation, though, apparently.
My eyes are heavy when I step out onto the pavement, the sedatives they’d given me twenty-four hours prior having not worn off yet. It’s hard to admire the building standing tall before me anyway when the gauze on my forearms is now oozing through with red stains. The paramedic doesn’t seem to notice. It’s just his job to sign me off to the nurse who’s waiting at the awning with a beige folder that’s only been growing since I hit puberty. This time, my stay is involuntary. Mandated by the state.
“Miss Mitchell?” the nurse says, and I hate how she talks to me in that high-pitched tone. It's like I’m an unruly child, and she’s just gentle parenting the best she can.
I glance toward her, and I’m sure I look just as dead as I should be by now.
“This way for intake.” She adds, leading me through a pair of glass doors.
The facility is too white. They all are. Of the five residential hospitals I’ve been to, only one has been painted differently. Mint green. That place was a fucking mad house. I have a theory that they paint hospitals white because lighter hues are supposed to emote optimism. It’s the manipulation of one’s emotions. Gaslighting, if you really think about it.
They go through my physical exam, and it’s no surprise that I’ve lost a few pounds. In the days before my attempt, I couldn’t eat. All I could do was drink water and suck on popsicles. I’d known I was going to go through with it and had seen in true crime documentaries about how people tend to shit themselves when they die. No way was I going to let someone find me covered in my own feces.
“Seems like your most recent cocktail of medications wasn’t very effective.” My newly appointed psychiatrist mentions while he scribbles in my file on his desk.
And what I want to say is, “Yeah, no shit. I wouldn’t be here if they were.”
I don’t say anything at all.
I’ve been here before, not at this facility, but in this state of mind. The headspace of a failed suici
“I’m going to start you on Abilify and increase your anxiety medication. We’ll begin this regime tomorrow morning and let you get one more good night’s sleep. The Abilify tends to have an insomniac effect.” He continues, and that’s okay. I prefer to stay awake into the night anyway.
Next, I’m shown to my room. More cinder block walls that are painted white with a stripe of powder blue through the middle for accent. On either side sits a twin-sized bed held up by iron frames.
My roommate is an eighteen-year-old girl who’s recovering from bulimia. She’s pretty, I think to myself, if not for her sunken cheeks and bulging joints. She’s getting better, though, she says. Her name is Mira, and she eats a little more each day. The meds they pump into her make her hungrier, but not hungry enough to develop a binge eating habit.
“We have breakfast at eight and group therapy at ten. Then, we all split into smaller group therapies at noon, like Narcotics Anonymous and AA. After that, lunch.” She tells me, but I’m hardly listening.
The red staining on my bandages is a little more prominent now, and not once has a nurse offered to check my sutures or replace the gauze.
“Between lunch and dinner, it’s open activity. You can sit in the garden or read. There are art supplies in the activities room. You can take a nap. They just ask that we temporary residents not interact too much with the lifers.”
I’d made the distinction halfway up the hallway. The two patients were dressed in two distinct colors of sweatpants and crewnecks. Navy blue and crimson red. A set of blues sits on my assigned bed, signaling that the reds are the “lifers”.
“Why’s that?” I ask Mira, feigning interest in what she has to say.
She sighs. “Don’t want us getting attached, I guess. We’re getting out, and they aren’t. Makes them go a little crazy once we’re gone, I imagine.”
I wonder momentarily if she’s already attached to someone here, but the thought escapes me as a red jumpsuit appears in the open doorway.
“How ya holdin’ up, Riles?” Mira asks.
I look up, and it’s a girl around my age, early twenties. She’s leaning against the doorframe with her hands tucked behind her back. Her hair is dark and wavy, and her overgrown fringe frames her hollowed-out face. She’s not sparing me a glance.
“Livin’ the dream, Miri. Living the fuckin’ dream.”
I’m taken aback by how kind her voice is, but somehow, it fits her washed-out skin and the dark bags lingering beneath her eyes.
“You’ve eaten your crackers today?”
Mira grabs the empty plastic wrapper that once held six peanut butter crackers and waves it before her with slight annoyance. The girl offers her a reserved smile in response.
She looks to me then, her storm-cloud eyes meeting mine briefly before traveling down, and I can’t help but feel self-conscious in this fucking hospital gown. But her gaze lands only on the bandages that are doing little to mend my wounds, and she nods in their direction.
“Looks like you really fucked yourself up.” She says.
Before I can respond, she’s dipping out of the door frame and disappearing to a place unseen by me. A moment later, she reappears, fresh gauze, bandages, and alcohol pads in hand. It’s unfortunate that these nurses don’t stock their carts with something a little more entertaining, like morphine.
“Can’t fucking rely on these nurses for shit. They’re just here to administer meds and fuck patients in the supply closet.” The girl says as she approaches my bed. “You mind?”
Without hesitation, I turn out my wrists. This isn’t my first rodeo. I know the damage is done; now I just have to pay the piper. If I don’t take care of the wounds, an infection will settle into my bloodstream and make my recovery even more prolonged. The last thing I want is to be stuck between these white-washed walls for longer than necessary.
“What’s your name?” She asks while lowering herself to her knees.
“Blair.” I wince as she pulls away the first bandage, but I don’t look at the crime scene on my wrists. I’d seen it well enough during the first act. Instead, I focus on the dead expression on her face, how the sight of blood and sticky plasma doesn’t seem to faze her like it might others. She places the old obscenities on the floor beside her knee so as not to dirty up my clean sheets before ripping open an alcohol pad with her teeth.
“It’s gonna hurt a little, okay?” She says.
I feel her fingers tighten around my wrist to hold me still as if I’m going to rip my arm out of her grasp over a little bit of sting.
“I think it hurt worse the first time,” I remark.
She looks up at me again with a slight smirk, appreciating my quick comeback. Then she hurts me.
Just a little, just like she promised. It’s a sharp sting that radiates up my arm, but nothing compared to digging into my wrist with actual purpose. That was real pain. That sort of hurt sears down your sternum and warms you from the inside out. It blazes through your entire body until it runs out, leaving you cold from the loss of blood and life. I don’t flinch as she finishes up both arms. I don’t even whimper.
“I’m Riley.” She says when she finishes.
“Lifer?” I ask, noting how she stuffs the old, soiled bandages into her pocket so I don’t have to see them. “What’d you do?”
I hear a small giggle from Mira’s bed, and Riley glances in her direction briefly. A salacious smile tugs at her lips as she stands. She doesn’t answer my question; instead, she nods at me on her way out.
Riley does the work that the nurses don’t. She does her rounds daily. Checks bandages and makes sure everyone eats and takes their meds. Tells everyone good morning and goodnight. The nurses trust her because she makes their jobs easier. I wonder what might drive her to care so much. She’s a lifer, after all. There can’t be much to live for when you’re surviving on a schedule of three square meals a day, group therapies, empty space filled with coloring, and sitting in a forty-foot garden for a bit of sunshine. By the looks of it, she certainly wasn’t venturing outside for much vitamin D.
I don’t care enough to linger on the question. A nap sits on my horizon. Those damn sedatives swim in my bloodstream and will have my sleeping schedule fucked for days.
When I wake up, it’s dark in my room. Silver moonlight shimmers through a window that sits between two beds without curtains. I’ve slept through dinner.
Guess the schedule here isn’t as tight as it seems.
Mira is sleeping soundly in the bed across from me. I creep beneath the top sheet to not disturb her, throwing my legs over the edge of the bed and slipping my feet into the socks left on the little nightstand to my right.
I like Elsberry better at night. It’s still bright, but everything is washed in a gray and black hue and seems much more melancholic. Less like they’re trying to shove optimism down my throat and more like I’m floating through some sort of purgatory.
There’s an orderly at the nurse’s station—just one. I figured they wouldn’t keep this place well-staffed at night. Considering the amount of drugs they pump into everyone’s systems, they don’t have to. I approach the desk, and he looks up at me through the transparent glass, his brow pinched as if to ask why I’m awake.
“I slept through dinner,” I say.
