It’s like the first time, all over again.
I walk into his room, overly aware of the sound my shoes make when they crack against the concrete floor and of the length each leg stretches in front of the other. But overall, I’m quite conscious of my breath spewing from my lips and my heart gushing fresh beats of blood into my ears.
He sits in the same chair, back facing me. I’ve spent hours creating possible conversations we might have in my mind. I’ve predicted thousands of outcomes—all disappearing like rainwater in the soil.
“I have a question.” Dessin’s voice snatches my focus into a snare.
“Okay.”
“Does anyone know why you really worked this hard to make it to my room?”
Are these just mind games, or does he really know this much? I only ever voiced my curiosities to Suseas. Would she have told him that?
“I don’t even think I know why I worked so hard to get into this room.”
He blinks slowly. “I’m sure you probably believe that too.” His eyes are like magnets to mine. Even when my gaze falls, they manage to return to base.
“Either way… I’m happy to be here.”
The first genuine closed-mouth smile spreads like a warm blanket over my shoulders.
“Now, can I ask you a question?” I set my clipboard down, mostly to break my gaze away from his smile. Stop staring.
He shrugs, and the slight movement carries a whiff of sandalwood, cedar, and cinnamon. “That depends on the question.”
“What was your first impression of this—place?”
His brow twitches, and a phantom smirk threatens his lips. “Do you want the truth? Without the filter?”
I nod.
“When I was being escorted to my room—I had a standoff of sorts in the hallway. Patient Eleven, I believe.”
“What happened?” Did he kill him? Was there a fight?
A half smirk. “He stood there, blocking the way to my room. Then, proceeded to pull out his precious male parts—took a long piss on the floor in front of me, all while maintaining intense eye contact.”
The visual is vivid.
“Without blinking,” he adds.
I fight the grin widening on my face—but it’s inevitable. The thought of Dessin not breaking the uncomfortable eye contact—but also the obvious look of disgust that must have overtaken his expression.
“I mean… He had a good point.” I say.
“That he did. It was the welcome wagon I had expected.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling harder. “You had me nervous at the start of that story. I thought you were going to say you fought him—or killed him.”
“Why would I do that? It’s as you said, he had a good point.” But the smile fades as he looks away, a memory snagging his attention. “Besides, he escaped later that night to hang himself from the tower on the east wing.”
I lean back into my seat, clench my fists. “He—killed himself?”
A casual nod. “He had enough of the treatment, I suppose. The simulated drowning was his primary.” He flexes his fingers and rolls his wrists. “Either way, he wasn’t the first to free himself—and he won’t be the last.”
The simulated drowning. Chekiss.
How am I going to free them before they free themselves?
But another thought claws at my mind. “Have you ever thought about—freeing yourself?” I brace myself for an answer I might not be ready for.
He lifts his chin, studying me, perhaps wondering if I’m ready for his answer as well. “I have not. I have far too much to live for.” And there’s a familiar glint in his gaze—a reckoning—a smugness—an I-know-something-you-don’t look.
Is that sarcasm? I don’t dare ask him to elaborate. It’s in that gaze that I am certain he won’t tell me.
“Let’s play a game,” I say, leaning forward in my seat.
He reciprocates my movement, leaning in, his chains collecting at his ankles.
“You have my attention.”
“Good, because you still don’t have mine,” I challenge. At this, he releases a full-on grin. His teeth are pin straight and glossy white. And dimples. “You tell me a secret, and I tell you one. No questions, only answers.”
Dessin considers this, eyes lowering in concentration. “The last woman I told a secret to ended up with a cracked spine in three different places.” His stare is lethal. He knows I know who he is talking about. “In fact,” he pauses, adjusting his wrists under the shackles. “I’m fairly certain she resides in the west wing. Also known as the rehabilitation ward. Humorous, don’t you think? Considering recovery most likely isn’t in her cards.”
“Wha––”
“Ah ah ah.” He stops me. “No questions. Only secrets. You’re breaking the rules already.”
Oh, sweet tree sap. “You’re right…” I say. “So, I guess that means it’s my turn?”
He nods once.
“I have a paralyzing fear of enclosed spaces.”
My thoughts jump back to his Sern confession. That’s why he hurt her. He told her a secret? Did he try to kill her to cover it up?
“I killed six people the day I admitted myself here.” Emotionless. Ice-coated words.
A jolt to my entire system. I try not to act fazed by his secret. But now I know he is, in fact, a murderer.
He closes his eyes, smiles to himself. “I don’t think there are any secrets you can tell me that would surprise me.”
A burning urge to prove him wrong rises under my chest.
“I think the only reason I can connect to patients with such ease is that I belong in here too. My secret is… I don’t think my mind survived the trauma from my childhood.”
Dessin’s body goes rigid.
“Skylenna,” he whispers like a hollow drum, laced with spider silk that clings to my ears. His lips part, and there is a thought reaching from his mouth, trying to break free. His eyes are conflicted, darting across the floor as though he is settling a silent argument.
Suddenly, his face is calm again and unfaltering with confidence. He lowers his head and raises his eyebrows at me in a condescending glower. “If I had a heart—that might have worked on me.”
His words lick my wounds with salt. I stand from my seat, realizing that our conversation has reached an end.
But before I can leave, I take a step in his direction, lowering myself into a squat so that I am now looking up at him. “You can try to convince me in every way possible that you don’t have a heart,” I say softly. “But I don’t give up. And if there is a heart somewhere in there—” My hand reaches out, touching the center of his chest. He stiffens like drying concrete, dark-mahogany eyes fixed on my fingers. “I’ll find it. I’ll be the first to find it.”
