They grip my elbows like I was brought in against my will. Like I might fight back, try to flee, scream and thrash around like a victim.
But I am exactly where I want to be.
It started with me weeping like a tenderhearted little girl in the church pews. Praying loud enough for the priest to join me. The same one that thought I could hear God’s voice in my head. The one that finally brought Judas to my room when we admitted ourselves.
It ended with him touching my shaking hand, revealing to me a vivid hallucination of the priest as a little boy, praying that his mother might finally die as she was suffering greatly from consumption. Coughing up blood, gurgling with each breath she took.
He just wanted her suffering to end.
I didn’t allow myself to feel badly or morally sour for using this memory against him. Not even when I gasped and told him that God showed me a vision of young Juliessa dancing in heaven, singing to the tulips like she did when he was a boy. That she was no longer in pain.
The priest was caught off guard, sure, but he didn’t have a moment of doubt. Instead, he collapsed to his knees, whimpering about how he missed his momma. He went on and on about how this was a miracle, a bright light cast down from the lord.
I told him how God wanted me in the asylum. That my presence would cleanse the evil from each patient. That I, myself, needed cleansing. God needed his vessel to be pure and without any temptation of sin.
The priest ate it up and nodded eagerly at my command.
The rest happened in a blur. He brought me to the asylum and wrote a report and diagnosis of the treatments I’d receive. And that since I was without my savage travel companion, I wasn’t a danger to anyone. I would cooperate. I was not to be executed for the crimes Dessin committed.
And now, as I am dragged through the halls of the asylum, I breathe in the deceiving scent of wood and leather, only to detect that ripe stench of body odor and stale urine.
I feel no fear or debilitating anxiety. Only a cold, detached sense of calm.
The stone walls vibrate with the screams of the patients. They echo with the dead that never made it out, that still linger from room to room. I can feel it blistering over my skin, the dire memories that beg for me to step through their veil. The urgency to see each injustice happen over the years, to watch the torture evolve into what they are now.
But I have a plan, and I must stay focused.
Conformists spin around to see my arrival, mouths dropping open in shock that I’m alone. Or perhaps, it’s the presence of death and destruction permeating from my soul. Maybe it’s the way my lips curve into a maniacal smile or the way my eyes glint with the promise of torment. Not mine, and not the other patients, but theirs.
They whisper and gawk at me being dragged past each room by my elbows. The orderlies yanking me are not gentle. Their touch will likely leave nasty bruises. The thought only fills my belly with satisfaction. Because each mark they make on my body, I will return tenfold.
A swish of short, raven-black hair catches my attention. A devious smirk on her face that says, oh, I’m going to have fun with you this time around.
She has no idea. Meridei, out of everyone here, is the person I am most excited to see.
The person I am most excited to play with.
After being stripped of the clothes that Runa and Asena gave to me, hosed down with ice-cold water, and given a white nightgown and grippy socks to wear—we stop in front of the thirteenth room.
There is only one moment that my stomach does an unhappy flip. My arteries stop pumping. It’s the moment I’m shoved inside, where he once stood, where he was once chained, where he once suffered.
My fingernails scrape against the stone floor. On all fours, I look over my shoulder at the orderly glaring at me. “We all used to fear this room. How does it feel to ruin that reputation?”
The door slams and I’m left on the floor, with simmering excitement for vengeance flaring hot inside of me.
“It feels fucking amazing.”
I’m hesitant to move through this room. The air is heavy and almost suffocating to try to breathe in. The memories seem to be physical entities that I can’t see but can feel pressing against my skin like a warm, wet bubble. I take a cautious look around. At the iron bed bolted to the floor, the shackles for wrists and ankles.
I scoff. They didn’t bother locking me to the bed, securing the threat in the thirteenth room properly. They don’t see me as a danger. They see me as a plaything they can work out their frustrations on. A laughable patient that they’ve hated since I stepped foot in this asylum as a conformist.
My eyes scroll over the smoky, dimly lit room once more, with the aged brass gas lanterns, the concrete floor, and the doorway to the small washroom.
I can almost catch his lingering scent of cedar, sandalwood, and manipulation. The sensation traveling up my nostrils and to my brain leaves me grinding my teeth together. It reminds me of gushing blood, sweat, and Dessin’s pale face as his eyes drained of all light.
The memories claw at my chest, begging me to give in to the building pressure, like waiting for an ocean wave to fall over my head. It blisters over my skin uncomfortably as I try to resist it. I’m practicing control. That’s the advice Dessin would have given to me. To play with the ability, test its perimeter, and push the limits.
Without warning, Dessin’s growls fill the room and the sound of restrained agony. The same tone I heard when he was being treated in his room for throwing a fit. The time they called me in, and I had to stop him from crippling the orderlies that held him down.
“This is what you wanted all along, isn’t it?” I ask the memory of Dessin swirling around the room like a puff of cigar smoke. “For me to remember you? Remember Kane? But you must have known that the only way for me to use this disorder, these vivid hallucinations, would be for them to break me the way they broke you.”
It occurs to me that he didn’t know how much he meant to me.
“How could you not know that losing you would be the only way I’d break? The only thing that would be far too much for my mind to handle?”
The little bit of emotion I let slip past my concrete barriers pulls me into a memory.
Dessin sits on the bed, head bowed, hands clasped, elbows resting on knees. And he’s in his white uniform.
“She seems happy,” he says quietly, talking to someone.
I spin around, looking for the recipient of his conversation. But I’m the only one here. The room is entirely empty.
“At least we can rest knowing that Aurick won’t make a move until she’s of age.” Dessin nods, looking to his feet. “Yes, but he isn’t his father. His only redeeming trait is that he shows signs of having remorse. A conscience.”
Kane must be the other person in this conversation.
I take a step back, watching him with burning eyes and a locked jaw.
“I’ll keep watching, and so will DaiSzek. But it’s been quiet.” His brow furrows, and I realize how much I missed that. Analyzing his facial features, the way he’d arch his brow or roll his eyes. It was fascinating to me seeing what made him tick. What brought feeling from that cold exterior. “I noticed that too. There’s a strong chance that they’ve already broken Scarlett.”
My spine molds into a steel rod. Was Scarlett like me before she died? A female subject that has visual and auditory delusions? I think back to her behavior. The violent outbursts, the way she’d scrub her body in the shower as if she was reliving her abuse.
I gasp. Oh my god. She was seeing her own memories, her own trauma playing back. That’s why she would act out, throw fits, and go completely still in thought. I even caught her talking to herself on more than one occasion.
“We’ll keep an eye on her too. She didn’t”—he exhales sadly—“she didn’t have you growing up to protect her from the experiment. It makes sense that she’d show the same signs of self-harm as the other subjects. Hopefully, having Skylenna living with her will change things.”
“Holy shit,” I breathe. That’s why Kane felt so guilty. They were trying to protect us both. And he didn’t get there in time.
I slip out of the void, sinking back into reality with a knot in my stomach. With a few short steps, I lower myself to his bed. My new bed, for a short while. It’s firm, cheap, and slightly uncomfortable. And his presence is all around me.
It’s all fucking around me.
Through the thick wall, I hear a woman crying. Muffled and feminine. A slow breakdown in room twelve. My head perks up. It’s not easy, but the pressure around me is the signal I need that this is also another memory. Hearing a woman weep through this—
My eyes flick to the man sitting on the bed in front of me. Dessin is listening to this woman cry. His jaw is flexed, eyes filled with ruthless fury, and his chest moves up and down rapidly. I press my ear against the stone wall and faintly recognize the voice.
Me.
I’m the one crying on the other side. When Dessin and I came back to find Judas. I sobbed my first night here; I was so scared. And he heard me.
I watch as Dessin places his large hand against the wall, around the same place my hand touched on the other side.
He was here with me all along.
Never letting me burn alone.
I fall back on the bed, curling against the iron railings and fighting the flashbacks of his death. I can feel myself slowly slipping into the agonizing depression, that endless sea of numbness. But I have to do this. Accomplish what I came here for. For Dessin. For Kane. For every alter that suffered the cruelty of these horrible people.
Then, I can rest. Then, I can finally sleep.
