“If you can’t protect yourself…”
A man sends whispers in the wind that haunt this dream. There’s a rich golden sunset, sputtering water smacks against the jagged black rocks fifteen feet below my feet. I let my head fall back, dangling off my shoulders, my eyes gazing at the cotton-candy sky covered by the fiery-red leaves of the red oak trees that surround me.
“Then I must keep you in the dark.”
~
The council warned me that by taking on the perilous position of Dessin’s conformist, I was willingly and knowingly putting myself in danger. Therefore, they would not put any more orderlies or conformists at risk. I signed a document, a crisp piece of parchment with their signatures at the bottom, so they would not be liable for my death or terminal self-detriment. I’m sure part of the protocol is to scare me. However, motivation sprang through my system first, elevating my senses. The conditions we agreed on were ninety days, not a day more, and if he slips up one more time, no matter the intensity of the situation, the decision will be made to put his head on the chopping block.
Stepping into his room, I wonder if he can spot the tension tightening between my shoulders, the exhaustion weakening my posture, or the fear for his life creasing my brow. Can he smell the stress moistening the back of my neck like a bloodhound?
What games will he choose to play today?
But now that I’m looking at him, facing his erudite presence, the fascinated glint in his dark eyes. Something about this vulnerable edge begins to fade, and my growing allurement with this patient lifts my chin and sets my shoulders upright. It’s like magic.
I take a seat in front of him. The tip of his chin points upward. He examines my awkward movements as I try to find a comfortable position in this small metal chair. I can’t sit comfortably without slouching in an unladylike way. So, I sit pin straight as if I’m on eggshells.
“Very nice wardrobe change.” Dessin greets me, examining my dusty-rose day dress I’d worn for the meeting I had with the council. I didn’t have time to change into my uniform once it ended.
“Me? What about you?” I wave my hand to his usual plain white shirt and pants. “You certainly dress to impress.”
He glances down at his chest, legs, then back to me. “Not quite. But I do undress to impress.”
I have to do a double take at his coy smirk. And to my humiliation, I peer down at his crotch. Heat spreading across my cheeks. Oh, no. To top it off, my clipboard slips from my fingers, crashing to the floor. I fumble forward to pick it up.
Dessin’s head falls back, barking out a laugh.
“Charming.” I shoot him a seething glare.
He twists his wrists within his shackles. “So, how did the meeting about my extracurricular activities go?”
Not sure how he heard about that. Uh…
“Am I in trouble?” he asks, amusement lighting up his chocolate eyes.
“Take a guess.” I glare.
“No.”
“Take another guess.”
He chuckles again, deeply amused.
“Well, I’m glad you’re so pleased with this situation because that meeting was anything but a picnic.” I grimace, still flustered by the tug-a-war over his life.
“And I suppose you’re not going to tell me why you fought so hard to keep me alive.”
“I thought you knew everything.”
He waits to respond. I take a moment to note that this is his cautious face. He’s reconsidering his response because he thinks it might give too much of his game away.
“Almost,” he says with a smile. “It’s time to start another game.”
“And what are the rules to this game?”
“For every memory of your past you tell me, I will give you a clue to my past.”
I’m intrigued, inching toward the end of my seat. I clench my hands together in my lap, picking through memories and tossing them to the side like clothing changes in my dresser. He’s giving me exactly what I came here for. To discover his secrets and assist with arranging the puzzle in the correct order. I need this from him.
“I think I like this game.” I finally give my feedback.
“You first—”
“You first.”
We say it in unison. I gawk at him with narrowing eyes. “Those aren’t the rules we agreed on, love.” His voice cajoles me into submission. I glance over at his wrists, still bound by the shackles, and I cringe. They must be draining the blood from his arms; I can’t imagine how painful that must become.
“Why do you stay locked up?” I ask, unknowingly changing the subject.
“Pardon?” His face remains impassive.
“Your wrists are shackled and bound upward. Doesn’t it hurt? Why do you stay that way? Are you just humoring me, or did they actually accomplish keeping you locked up this time?”
His brow knits together. “I didn’t want to scare you or make you think you were in any danger.” His words are sincere, and that somehow makes me want to put my guard up as if at any moment he’s about to laugh in my face. I stand up from my chair and walk over to his bedside, sit down on my knees, my waist pushed against his legs as I struggle to undo his left shackle. I look over at him for assistance, but his focus is on my body being so close to his.
“Can you—um—how do you—” I gesture to his wrists. I know he knows how to get out; I’m simply making a fool of myself. But he doesn’t respond, his attention stuck to my waist, and I’m unsure if he’s resisting a memory or fixated on a flaw in my dress.
I clear my throat, and his eyes snap up, readjusting to mine. A peaceful smile rolls over my lips. “Okay. What’s your secret?” I ask. “How do you always know how to escape?”
Composed in posture, he shifts his right index finger and thumb to unlatch something small on the inside of his shackle. Then, as it clicks open, he reaches across and does the same movement to the left shackle. His hands are free and gripping my wrists gently. The little voice inside my head is shouting, screaming, howling for me to use enough common sense to be frightened, but I sit still and watch him.
“You’re going to have to explain something to me,” he demands lightly. The flesh plastered along his fingers is warm, always warm. “The man who abducted you is restrained, and you try to free him?” His voice is thick today, pouring hot with steam, dancing around the room like a few song notes that captivate an audience of one.
“You don’t frighten me,” I answer quickly, without truly taking into consideration the honesty of his words as well as the explanation. But it’s true, I am not afraid of him. He intimidates me. He makes me nervous. He captivates me. He fascinates me. But he doesn’t scare me. If anything, I’m frightened by the fact that he doesn’t scare me. I should have the good sense to be afraid of him, but that sense doesn’t register for some unknown reason.
“Don’t you find that interesting? I frighten every person who knows of me.” He moves closer. “Everyone but you,” he says, softer than a whisper.
“Why would I find that interesting?” I instigate.
“It’s interesting because I’m sure you can imagine all of the grotesque, vile ways I could snap your neck and not lose a moment of sleep over it, and yet you’re not afraid that I’m loose of my restraints,” he says with a smirk. This smirk is devilish and cruel. It’s painted with shards of a manipulative soul broken into tiny pieces that he must cradle inside.
The questions buzz inside my head—what could have happened to this young man who must have once had a heart? What turned him into this dominating, rancorous beast?
“That’s a lie,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow.
“You’d lose sleep over it,” I snap, tugging my wrists free. “I know you think you’re doing well at fending me off, keeping your secrets your own—remaining isolated—but you underestimate me. I’m going to figure you out, and I’m going to do it faster than you think.”
Dessin reveals a faint smirk. “You really believe I’m underestimating you?” A flash of his white teeth. “It’s delightful to hear that you think I don’t know enough about you to know how quick you are at learning a human being inside and out. I’m not afraid of you cracking the case of the troubled yet devilishly handsome Patient Thirteen. I’m merely one microscopic piece to this puzzle you haven’t come to see yet. And I’m aware of how it will break you inside to know the truth.”
I think about asking what he means, but dismiss the thought as quickly as it comes. He wouldn’t answer it, and even if he did, it would only bring about more annoying questions never to be answered. “Shall we start the game?” I ask with a sigh.
“Yes.”
My stomach gurgles, low and unnaturally loud. I push down on it with the palm of my hand, heat burning my cheeks with embarrassment. Looking up at him, it’s like the sun has finally risen on his face, warm rays eliminating darkness. He’s smiling, now also letting the amusement touch his eyes.
“After you eat,” he says, smile growing wider.
“No, after we eat. I’ll bring food from the dining hall for the two of us.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t care,” I say flatly.
We stare at each other as if waiting for the other to blink first. And a new rush of feeling warms my chest like a heated blanket. Familiar and comfortable. But, the way his chin tilts upward, the hint of a smirk softening his lips, it’s a feeling of fondness.
I enjoy his company. Does he enjoy mine?
“Well, I suppose processed foods will kill me faster, so let’s stock up.” He hums enthusiastically, dripping with sarcasm.
