Fist clenched, I grip the latest variant of the reagent. With every subject, with every failure, I adjust the chemical compound.
My heart rate increases as I open my palm and stare at the vial. I prepared the mixture for the newest subject, determined to get it right. Not to fail again. I prepared it before I knew the newest subject was Blakely.
I glance at her clock again, desperation flooding my system with adrenaline.
Five clocks no longer tick. Their hands point to the time each of the prior subjects expired.
Died.
I hear Blakely’s voice correcting me, calling out my lies.
You’re a murderer.
“I’m a scientist.” Every breakthrough requires sacrifice. A mantra I’ve been reciting for over two years. I cannot let my subject—no matter how tempting—deter me from that achievement.
I clutch the vial and leave the room.
The time for theoretical hypothesis is done. The only way to test my theory is to administer the reagent.
As I descend the stairs, I hear a scratching noise. I draw back the curtain to find Blakely scraping the edge of the chain against the cement floor.
She looks up, her hair tangled over her shoulders. Apparently she was right about the shampoo, but the wild look is sexy on her. Everything is sexy on her.
“No TV. No books. If you don’t kill me, the boredom will,” she says. “Figured I’d compose my autobiography right here on the floor. Give the next subject something entertaining to read.”
The disdain in her voice gives me hope that my timing is right. She cannot be lethargic or uncommitted. Some range of emotion is needed as a base for the treatment to be a success.
I head to the cart and unwrap a sterile syringe. She hasn’t questioned what she saw upstairs—or what transpired between us. She hasn’t pushed…because she knows it’s a sensitive matter. She’s either wary about forcing the subject, or she’s saving it for later. An ace up her sleeve that she can use to unnerve me.
“I’ll bring you a journal,” I say, as I hold the vial up to fill the syringe.
“With a pen?”
“Of course.”
“Aren’t you worried I’ll stab my jugular?”
I turn to face her, and her gaze goes to the syringe in my hand. “I didn’t perceive you as suicidal. Should I be worried?”
Blakely drops the chain, purposeful in her intent to cause a disturbance. “As you studied me, stalked me, know everything about me…I guess you don’t have that to worry about.”
I hold up the syringe and flick the tube, ridding it of any bubbles. I decide to steal her thunder, as it were, and remove the future opportunity to vilify me with her words.
Taking a seat on the stool opposite her, I say, “In my room, every clock was set to the conception of a new idea. A hypothesis. A theory. An experiment. A subject. Anything of importance that I deemed deserving of documentation, I made it tangible by giving it a way to track its own timeline.”
Blakely brings her legs beneath her, chains rattling with her movement. “Well, your little room of horror looks a lot like if Salvador Dali painted his version of a void.”
Amused, I raise an eyebrow. “Your assessment isn’t far off. That void’s name is Musou black. The blackest paint in existence. It consumes light, allowing nothing to reflect off its surface. I wanted only my clocks to exist in the room.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“You believe I know so much about you, therefore I feel you should know something about me in return.”
“Do I have a clock, Alex?”
A hesitant pause, then: “Yes.”
She’s silent for a long beat, her watchful eyes never wavering. “I bet you have a real hard-on for Dali.”
A smile twitches at my lips. “I hope you don’t lose your edge, Blakely.”
She stands suddenly. “Then don’t take it from me, Alex.”
I glance at the syringe in my hand, a heavy weight filling my chest. “I simply have no choice.”
I push off the stool and have her in my grasp. She attempts to wrap the chain around my neck, but I step on the length, locking her wrists by her sides. Hand clamped to the back of her neck, I stare down into her face. Those piercing eyes promise malice.
“I’ll try to be gentle.”
“Go to hell.”
I sink the needle into her arm and watch as her pupils dilate. Blakely becomes docile, her body going slack, and I quickly wrap an arm around her waist to catch her. I carry her to the gurney and lay her on the bedding, removing the chains and securing her cuffs to the side bars.
As I ready the drip bag with anesthesia, she croaks out a word.
“What did you say?” The combination of the drug and the anesthesia is dangerous, and I have to adjust the dose carefully.
When she says nothing more, I clip the bag to the bar and insert the needle into her arm. She’ll be completely under in less than a minute.
“I was thinking about time earlier,” I say, as I place adhesive over the tube on her arm to keep it in place, “and how if only I could send you on a course at the speed of light, I could slow the necrosis in your brain…maybe even revert the process.”
She swallows, straining to keep her eyes open and locked on me.
“That’s absurd, I know. A foolish, whimsical theory that has no basis.” I stroke her hair, my fingers splaying the blond layers over her shoulder. “If there was a way to do this differently…for you, I assure you, I’d try.”
But that’s not our reality. The desire to cure her must outweigh the risk. No matter the pain, no matter the torture for us both.
I won’t fail her.
“I think about that moment between us outside the warehouse,” I say, as she starts to fall under. “When my emotions were soaring, when you asked me how I felt, to describe it to you. What you were truly asking me for was this right here. You were pleading with me to help you, Blakely—and I’ve never wanted anything more.”
Her lips move, and I lean in to get closer.
“You’re not the doctor…you’re the monster,” she whispers. A reference to Frankenstein.
I stay close to her as the drug infuses her bloodstream. I watch her chest rise and fall, her breaths becoming shallow as the drug drags her further down. Her eyes finally give up the fight and close.
I inhale her scent, filling my lungs with the searing ache, then reverently touch the scratch marks on my cheek. I look at my pocket watch to record the time. “In this moment, we are both monsters.”
19
The Little Death
Blakely
I don’t have to notch my walls with the days like some old-school convict. The measure of time is all around me.
Every time Alex checks his watch. Every time he drives a hand through his hair in frustration with an unwanted result. Every cruel procedure he subjects me to is logged with date and time. After nearly three weeks, I’ve underwent twelve electroshock sessions, including the first where I felt every millisecond of torture.
Today’s treatment will be lucky number thirteen.
My mind is foggy and detached. I touch my forehead and blink hard, trying to recall the last conversation I had with Rochelle. She’s the closest thing I have to a friend, or had… Our talk in her office comes to me in fragments, her ironed face a blur and difficult to picture.