Blood Day by J.L. Murray Page B

“You may not feel like much now, but you were someone, weren't you? In your society?”
    Sia loosened her grip on her knees. Something about the woman's voice set her at ease.  
    “I was a musician,” said Sia.
    “Not just a musician, ma belle ,” she said, her voice rising in intensity. Sia found it hard to breathe. There was no air in the room. She started to sweat.
    “A prodigy,” said Sia.
    “And then, a genius. It was said that you were the wunderkind of New York City, was it not? You did not just play in an orchestra, but you also made a name for yourself as a solo artist. Sometimes playing up to six instruments in a single show. You were the toast of the town. For a time. Until the music stopped.”
    “How do you know about me?” said Sia.  
    “I know many things, Sia.”
    “Why is there a Rev outside your door?”
    “Because the Revenants own this hospital. And you are important.”
    “He’s outside your door,” said Sia. “That means that you’re the important one.”
    “Pah,” she said. “It is you we are all interested in, Sia. Only you.”
    “Why?” said Sia, wheezing. “Why am I important?”
    “You will prove to us all that it can be done.”
    “What can be done?”
    Mathilde suddenly stood, breaking Sia's concentration. Cool air filled her lungs as the woman turned, pacing to a window and throwing back two heavy drapes. Light flooded into the room. Sunshine shone into Sia's face making her flinch and shield her eyes. When it became bearable, Sia lowered her hand. The sky outside was a brilliant blue, shining upon a snowy grounds that looked like a Christmas card. Trees weighed by the weight of the snow dotted the landscape. Sia uncurled herself and slid off of the bed, expecting someone to stop her. No one did. When she reached the window, she spread her hands on the glass, reveling in the cold.
    “It snowed,” said Sia.
    “Yes,” said Mathilde. “Though you are trapped here, life goes on.”
    Sia could make out the shapes of benches and shrubs and even a fountain, accumulating white fluff. The building she was in wrapped around the grounds, forming a perfect large circle in the middle. The building itself looked very old, like a manor from a period film.  
    “What is this place?” said Sia. “I mean, what was it? Before it was a hospital.”
    “It was once a mental institution,” said Mathilde.  
    “Are we still in the city?” said Sia.
    “Yes. Technically.”
    “I've never seen this place. And I grew up here.”
    “It was for the very rich. The very rich could afford to keep even something this large a secret. Isn't that sad? A society driven by money.”
    “Better than driven by blood,” said Sia.
    “You say that,” said Mathilde, standing very close to Sia, “and yet, you are still here. Criminal, yet unscathed. That, to me, is mercy, ma belle. ”
    “Can I go out?” said Sia. “Outside, I mean. Just for a little while.”
    Mathilde laughed a low, throaty laugh. “ Ma belle, soon you can do whatever you please. Going outside is nothing. Sia, how would you like to play music again?”
    Sia's knees went weak and she staggered away from the woman.
    “This is a trick,” said Sia. She looked around the room. For the first time she noticed that she was in an office. Her bare feet sank into a plush carpet the color of wine. The walls were painted a deep green, and bright landscape paintings hung on the walls. A mahogany desk commanded one side of the room. The nameplate read: “Mathilde Briar.”  
    “Not a trick, Sia,” she said. Sia's head snapped back to look at her.
    “Stop torturing me!” Sia screamed. “Why are you doing this to us? To me? Why couldn't you just send me away like the rest of the junkies?”
    “Because you are not really an addict, Sia. Are you?”
    Sia felt the wall against her back and she slid down onto the floor. Her face was wet and she couldn't breathe again.
    “In fact,” said Mathilde, crouching down to look at her,