Ink and Arsenic

In a mental health hospital run by a singular man and his husband, patient Snake is the only one who doesn't seem happy. After a failed suicide, he wakes up with a mysterious tattoo.

Clay Morrison. A man who, by himself, created an underground facility whose mission was helping people who were fugitives of the law, victims of human trafficking, and people with mental health disorders. While it wasn’t the ideal place for most people to stay, it helped. Nighttime in the house was quiet, as Clay kept a very tight ship. This was mostly to teach the patients of his discipline, but also because it made it easier for him. All of them listened to Clay; going to bed and eating at the right time, being cooperative during medical exams, and obeying any of Clay’s demands, which there were very few of. All except one, S.

S only went by an abbreviation of his nickname, Snake, and Clay was the only one there who knew his real name. He hated his name and chose to ignore it. He had been sent to Clay’s facility because he checked all three marks for what the facility helped with. He even agreed that he needed to stay there, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to be free, but he’d never be able to. Clay was extremely apprehensive around S, and because of that, he keeps him under lock and key. Usually metaphorically, but sometimes literally. S never wanted to listen to anyone, and that didn’t change because he was sent to a fake mental hospital.

That night, instead of sleeping, S stared at the window, his heterochromatic eyes shining in the deep moonlight. The window entranced him as he stood up. His clock glowed with a soft green light. 1:27. “Another day. Another poison.”

S looked at a small vial labeled “Arsenic” on the ground next to the pile of blankets he usually sleeps on. “Here goes nothing.” He sighed, picking up the deadly chemical. S had been through so much suffering even the guards from the prison he was sent to were still on his trail. He just wanted to end it with the quickest death he could think of. Poison. There was one problem with that, though. S had built up an immunity to most poisons, even the most deadly ones known to man. Clay had been trying to help him find a chemical strong enough, but there was nothing. S was elated to see one of the strongest poison ever being given to him, whether he showed it or not.

He took the cap off the vial and drank it down, the poison coating his mouth with a metallic taste. It slithered down his throat like vodka and he smiled. Finally! A chemical strong enough to take him down! He smiled as he began to cough uncontrollably. Then the welcoming embrace of death seemed much more horrifying. The feeling in his throat soon turned to a burning fire. He didn’t anticipate it being this painful. S wanted to keep going, he wanted to get it over with, but something made him stop. He suddenly felt like he needed to get it out of his system as if death was something he didn’t want anymore. He fell onto all fours as he spit some of the chemical out in front of him. He began to vomit, traces of blood in it. The chemical was so strong. Eventually, he passed out.

Then he woke up.

He felt  disappointed. He finally thought he could leave this useless world. He sat up. The clock beeped its obnoxious alarm down at him. “I hear you, I hear you.” He hissed at it. He stood up and saw his hoodie covered in the vomit from the night prior. The smell made him gag as he looked away. “First I’m still alive, then my only hoodie is covered in vomit.” He grabbed his mask, extended it over his ears to cover his mouth and stormed into the hall. The house was still as quiet as before as a chill went down his spine. He pulled the hoodie off and threw it into the laundry machine in a small closet. He shut it, set it to the longest time just to make Clay mad, and walked into the bathroom. The first thing that caught his attention was the mirror.

He made it a point to always look at himself in the morning, and not because he’s a narcissist. In fact, he hated how he looked, but it was important for him to look at himself every day. This was one of the multiple menial mental health exercises Clay asked him to perform daily. Clay asked him to evaluate how he looked. Yeah it was simple enough, but for a guy who was looking for a way to kill himself, it did virtually nothing. You can’t multiply an ego that’s already at zero.

He stared at himself in the mirror as he took his mask off. He hated his face. His messy brown and green hair swept over his blue eye, exposing his amethyst one. The stitched up scar from his first owner went high onto his forehead, the stitches a deep black compared to his patchy pale skin. He opened his mouth to look at his extremely sharp canines, his nose ring sparkling slightly The bite marks and scars from previous owners and prison fights were still covering his arms. He snapped his teeth as his revolting reflection. There was a reason his nickname was Snake, and his face was part of it. He pulled his tank top off, followed by his black jeans. He locked the door before taking his watch and underwear off. He jumped into the shower and turned it on.

He loved jumping into the shower first. It was the only time he had the ability to be alone and get a warm shower. The water flowed down his back as he put soap in his hair. It smelled very grassy. He eased his body into the water, the drops rolling down his body. A slight purr escaped his lips as he washed the soap off of himself. Water is one of his favorite things. It can be both painful and welcoming. It was a vision of duality that he enjoyed very much. Interrupting his fantasy was a loud bang on the door.

“Who’s in there?!” A strong voice shouted.

“It’s S! The arsenic only knocked me out and made me throw up so I needed to get a shower!” He shouted back.

“Is that why the washing machine is on for an hour?!” Clay said in an exasperated tone.

“You got it, sister!” S laughed as he shut off the shower. He shook his head to get the remaining water out, then picked his towel up. He was about to put it on as he looked in the mirror. He instantly dropped it. On his chest was a large black inking that read ‘Мой -мей.’

S couldn’t read Russian, but the letters shocked him. He’d never seen this before. Not on him. Not on anybody. He needed to know what it meant, but he couldn’t move. He took the towel and vigorously attempted to rub it off him. He rubbed it until it made his skin raw. He winced and looked back in the mirror. It was still there. Panicking, he put the towel on over himself and unlocked the door. Clay stood outside, staring at him. “You ok, Snake? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” S gave an annoyed grunt in response, grabbed his mask, and went back to his room, the smell of vomit hitting him like a brick. He ignored it, dried himself off, and grabbed a new outfit.

He pulled a dusty mirror out of his closet and dragged it to an empty corner of his cell-like room. S then sprinted to the door and locked it to keep Clay from running in. He threw his shirt off and analyzed the words that went down his right pec and to the pelvis of his skinny body. “Мой -мей… What does that even mean?” He mumbled to himself. He traced the letters, wincing slightly at his raw skin. He wanted to look up the meaning, but he didn’t own a computer or phone. He put the shirt back on and opened the door to see Clay waiting for him.

“Hey, Snake.” He said, his voice flowing through S’s ears. S pushed past Clay and went downstairs to the library. It was the only room in the building where technology was accessible. S walked over to a computer plugged into the wall. Clay followed close behind. “You should be back in your room.” He said calmly.

“How do you type in Russian?” S asked in the same calm tone.

“That’s not important. What’s important is that you go back to your room. Breakfast isn’t for another hour.” Clay remarked, unplugging the only computer in the room.

“I just need to know what this word means.” S whined. Clay looked at him sternly.

“Upstairs or no breakfast.” S sighed and went back upstairs. He expected to smell the strong smell of vomit, but instead was greeted by the scent of Lysol or ammonia or something in between. Did Clay clean his room while he went to the computer? He knelt next to the spot where the threw up. Clay definitely cleaned it. He laid on the carpet. It felt soft and welcoming. How did he get this done in 5 minutes? He didn’t know, and didn’t care for that matter. Then he began to think.

When S begins to think, it’s never a good sign. It means his mind is racing with dark thoughts. Today, his mind was filled with the thoughts of that tattoo. Who gave it to him? When did he get it? What does it mean? Someone took the time out of their life to ink this onto him and he intended to find out who.

Maybe it was one of the other people stuck here. He wasn’t too social, so he didn’t know who would or wouldn’t like him. Ori, Clay’s husband, was too nice and S wasn’t sure he’d be smart enough to tattoo someone anyway. Then he thought about Clay. He was probably the most suspicious person there and also the only person who would even think about it. But even the chances of that were unlikely.

What did it mean, though? He recognized the letters as Russian, but he didn’t know what they meant. It probably was an insult. He wasn’t the most liked person there, after all. He traced his finger over it. “Мой -мей” He said to himself again. He pronounced it “Mon Smen” which was what the characters looked like, but it definitely was not the pronunciation. He racked his brain to think of what it meant. After an hour of thinking, Clay unlocked the door and brought S down for breakfast.

While the rest of the residents of the house talked and laughed, S sat there miserably, not touching the pancakes Ori had made for him. Clay sat at the edge of the long table, not taking his eyes off of S, who didn’t look at him. All he did was stare down at his chest. All he could think of was the message on his chest. He didn’t want to do anything except learn more about it. Ori realized he didn’t eat anything as Clay dismissed everyone and left. Ori grabbed S’s wrist.

“S. Why didn’t you eat anything? Was it the arsenic?” Ori asked quickly. S then remembered the metallic taste in his mouth.

“No. I’m just not hungry.” S growled back at him. Ori wasn’t going to let him go.

“Sit down and eat. You didn’t eat last night either.” Ori remarked, sitting him down. “Mental health isn’t the only important thing, you know.” S always knew Ori had a very motherly personality for a gay male with no kids. Even so, S didn’t want to eat.

“Can you keep a secret, Ori?” S mumbled from his seat, poking at his food.

“Anything. And, I’m guessing you only want me to keep it from Clay, so you’re safe with me.” Ori smiled as he sat across from S. S traded his plate out for a plate of eggs across from him and ate a bit.

“Do you know how to read or speak Russian?” S remarked with a mouthful of food. Ori smiled, both because S was eating and he asked if he could speak Russian.

“Of course I can! Why do you ask?” Ori asked. S out down his fork and led Ori to his room. He then took off his shirt to reveal the large black print. Ori turned his head to the side. “Мой -мей… My Serpent.” He said quietly. The words pierced S’s head like a knife. My serpent.

“Who would write that on me?” He asked himself quietly. Who would call him theirs? It couldn’t be Ori or Clay since they were married and it couldn’t be anyone else there because they didn’t know him well enough. Was there someone on the outside spying on him?

“I don’t know. Do you want me to tell Clay? This might be serious if you have a stalker or something like that.” Ori panicked. S gave him a dirty look and pulled his shirt back down.

“No way. Clay already hates me and if he thinks someone’s infiltrated the facility to do this, he’ll blame me like he always does.” S growled at Ori. Ori backed up a bit.

“Well, let’s think about it. Who in the facility knows how to use a tattoo gun?”

S thought about it. “Jenna was a tattoo artist, wasn’t she?” He thought for a second. Jenna was one of the other patients who had nearly killed someone in her tattoo shop. She was one of the crazier ones there, but she didn’t have all of her screws loose. Maybe she wanted to practice one of her new tattoo ideas. But why of all things would she write My Serpent? S ran out of the room and down the hall to a black door with red paint splatters on it. He walked in to see a girl with crazy black hair staring at the ceiling and taking a small knife and throwing it up in the air. “Jenna? It’s S. We need to talk.”

“Hey zigzag. Whaddya want?” Jenna sat up, wearing a black shirt and black pants.

“Did you give me a tattoo last night?” S shouted at her. Jenna rolled her eyes.

“Oh, quit jumpin’ to conclusions. Clay locked me up last night, like he does every night. Why? You get a really dark bruise and think it was tattoo or something?” She retorted, playing with the knife in her hand.

“No!” S shouted, pulling his shirt up and showing her. She froze.

“That ain’t no bruise.”

“That’s what I’m trying to say! I can’t find who did it!” S panicked.

“Good luck finding who did it. Now get out.” Jenna smirked. Defeated, S left. He spent the next hours looking for clues. He skipped lunch and his daily mental health exam. The tattoo was driving him insane. By the time dinner came around, Clay was angry. His patients never disobeyed him and he wasn’t going to let them start now. He stormed upstairs and knocked on the door to S’s room. S was standing in front of the mirror and staring at the tattoo. He couldn’t calm himself down.

“Snake! You skipped your exam and lunch! Come out already!” Clay shouted from outside the door. S quickly threw his shirt on, put the mirror back in his closet, and opened the door. Clay was fuming. “Where have you been?!”

“The arsenic made me feel really sick. I didn’t want to be near people.” S lied very obviously. Clay grabbed ahold of S’s collar and pulled him close.

“I am not going to tolerate this behavior. Go downstairs and eat dinner. Then, when you’re done, you can clean the kitchen. And after that, you can go to your room and stay there all night.” He threw S into the hallway and stormed downstairs to eat. S was angry. He stormed downstairs and sat in his seat. He looked down at his food silently.

“So, sir. Who’s gonna clean up tonight?” Said Jett. Jett was the shortest patient, and was there with dissociative personality disorder. He smiled sideways at S. S took a small bite of his chicken. It made him feel sick.

“It’s going to be Snake.” Clay answered calmly. Jett smiled wider. He would be nothing if not for his observation skills, and he knew that S was in big trouble that night.

“How come? Did he do something wrong?” Jett asked politely. S growled quietly as he bit into his food again. Clay saw S getting mad and continued humoring Jett and his questions.

“Yes. He’s the first patient in years to disobey some of the few orders I give. I’m helping him be less crazy and this is how he repays me.” S tapped his sharp nails on the table.

“What do you mean ‘less crazy’?” S asked quietly. This made the table go silent.

“I mean you qualified for all three things we stand for. Fugitives, people involved in human trafficking, and people with mental disorders. You have a lot of screws loose and you’re here so we can fix you.” Clay said quickly. S stood up and slammed his fists on the table.

“Fix me?! What have you done to fix me in any way?! I haven’t changed since i was sent here! I’ve probably even got worse! I’m literally trying to find a chemical to kill myself with and what do you do?! You’re helping me find a chemical I can kill myself with! What kind of help is that?!” S shouted across the table. Everyone stared at him. Clay was furious.

“Obviously you don’t see what we’re trying to do h-”

“You’re not trying to do anything! You’re trying to make us all worse! You haven’t helped anyone! YOU’RE JUST A LIAR!” S screamed at the top of his lungs.

“LARS! SIT BACK IN YOUR SEAT!” Clay shouted. The room gasped. S had hit his limit. Everything before was one thing, but saying his name that he explicitly hated was another. S grabbed his plate of food and threw it at Clay. Everyone stared at Clay’s food-filled face. “...If you’ll excuse me, I need to clean up.” He stood up, shaking with rage, and went into the bathroom. After he came back, nobody made a sound. “Snake. Go to your room.”

“But I-”

“Go.” S walked upstairs, defeated. He sat on his makeshift bed. The whole situation almost made him forget about the tattoo. Almost. When his mind was back on track, he decided he’d escape and find whoever broke into the facility and tattooed him. He snuck out into the hallway as the rest of the patients laughed and smiled. He went downstairs and made a break for the front door. As he ran, he put his mask on. The cold night breeze swept his hair back. As he neared the large fence hiding the house, he heard an angry scream from the house as Clay began to chase him. The other patients cheered S on and his heart raced.

“See you, sucker!” S smiled as he began to climb the fence. Clay wasn’t going to give up. He grabbed ahold of S’s ankle and made him slip and fall into a bush. The thorns penetrated his body and Clay smiled.

“How about we go inside and fix you up, Lars?” He smiled sleazily, pulling him out of the bush. He began to treat him nicer than usual. He took S inside and up to the bathroom. S felt defeated and uncomfortable as Clay put him in the shower. S covered himself as Clay took all the thorns out of his body. Then the warm water turned on. He shut his eyes and embraced it. He purred softly like before, happy to feel the warm embrace of the water. Clay took his wrist, cut a piece of skin ope, then put a small glowing machine under his skin. To S’s surprise, he couldn’t feel a thing. Clay eventually turned off the water and dried him off. S took the towel and covered himself as Clay took him back to his room. Clay then handed S a pair of new green sleep pants, which he quickly put on. Then Clay laid S down so he was lying on his stomach on top of the pile of blankets.

S was confused. He didn’t understand why Clay was doing this. The two hated each other, but now Clay was acting nice. Clay began to pet S’s head to calm him down, then S laid his head on his arm and looked up at him. “Why are you being so nice to me?” Clay pointed at the machine in S’s wrist. It was a tracking device. S stared in horror as Clay whispered this simple sentence:

“Because you’re my serpent.”

Author's Note

This is a scene from my prison drama story High Security. I stole the prompt from Writer's Digest. Comment below critiques and if you wanna see more from this story.