I had to leave my worldly belongings behind. A dead man doesn’t return to clean out his apartment. And Blakely checked. Twice. As if needing confirmation that I was really gone, she went through my mail. She watched my loft, stalking my old haunt the way she used to stalk her targets.
With a resigned frown, I glance around the sparsely furnished studio. Eventually, the landlord of my old place will either auction off my possessions or toss them.
I stop in the kitchen to grab a water from the fridge. Door held open, I relish the cool refrigerated air as it blasts my slick skin, gaze landing on the top shelf with the five glass vials.
A thump snags my attention, and I hastily guzzle from a water bottle before I grab one of the vials and head into the bathroom.
Location wasn’t the only reason why I chose this place. The converted studio next door was condemned due to a fire. Renovations stalled when the price of building materials went sky-high, leaving the place vacant. With the state of the economy, the project is likely to stay abandoned for the foreseeable future.
I slip the vial in my pocket before removing the bathroom mirror to expose the hole in the wall. Cut large enough to crawl through, I clear the opening and enter the dark apartment.
The air inside here is only marginally less humid than outside. The unit doesn’t have power, so I had to utilize the electricity from mine. I drilled a small hole through the baseboard and wall to run two power cords, which feed power to the devices I consider more vital than air-conditioning.
The thump comes louder this time, and my phone buzzes in my back pocket with the alarm.
I turn off the reminder, then set my phone on the bare metal table. Construction debris and dust covers the unit. The wood floors have been pried up in areas. Cabinets ripped out. The walls have been stripped to reveal the original brick. It reminds me of Mary’s cabin in a way, the age and history, the solid bones.
I take a syringe from the basket under the table. “The anesthesia wore off quicker than anticipated. I’ll account for that from now on.”
As I fill the syringe with the contents of the vial, the restrained man in the center of the room groans and wriggles against his bindings. I was able to secure an old gurney from a hospital’s dumpsite, but unfortunately, I did have to break into my retirement fund to acquire all new computers and lab equipment.
The black market is where I earn a living these days, selling hacking software and cloning prototypes. I recall once telling Blakely I had no intention of doing so, but the ends justify the means. I need money—lots of it—to fund a new project.
Since time is of the essence, I forewent building another brain scanner and mapping device, and instead purchased the instruments direct from a Korean lab.
It’s risky, conducting the experiment in the city. I thought I was clever before by selecting a remote location in the middle of nowhere. But truthfully, there is nowhere more alone and isolating than this city. People are burdened with busy schedules and stacked one on top of the other, forcing them to ignore their neighbors for the sake of privacy. They don’t want to know what I’m doing here; they just appreciate that I’m quiet and keep to myself.
I could be a Dahmer copycat, but as long as I’m severing heads quietly and making sure to keep the electricity on so the mutilated body parts don’t reek up the hallway, people could care less.
As I approach Subject 9, I hold the syringe up and then, with clear warning in my gaze, order him to remain silent. “Let’s make this quick. I have a date tonight.”
Sweat beads his forehead. The duct tape is slick as I rip it away from his mouth.
He blows the mouthguard out, his ashen face highlighted with red welts and rashes from the adhesive. “Please…you have to let me go. I don’t deserve this—this is insane.”
I inhale a deep breath, acutely aware of the absent scent in the stale air, that intoxicating mix of coconut and bergamot.
Her scent.
The fragrance of my lab when she was there.
Blakely’s scent imbued me, putting me right at her mercy.
Since smells travel directly to the memory and emotional hubs of the brain, even the absence of a smell can trigger an emotional response.
If I don’t rectify us soon, I fear I’ll completely lose the memory of it, and it will forever linger in that haunted cabin basement.
I slip my good hand into a glove and proceed with tightening the straps on my subject.
“God, no…” He fastens his eyes shut. “I haven’t eaten for two days. This is inhumane!”
There’s that word again, and just like every other time I’ve heard it uttered, the vertebrae along my spine locks taut. “Really, inhumane is how you subjected your college roommate to a hazing stunt that left him maimed for life. But—” I shove the mouthguard back into his mouth and secure it with a new strip of tape “—I’m neither your judge nor your jury.”
And with the exact replication of the treatment, I won’t be his executioner, either.
I’m going to cure this man.
The dial on the ECT machine is set to the precise voltage. The chemical compound is delivered in the exact manner. Anesthesia is not administered. Every single aspect is parallel to Blakely’s procedure.
I strap the electrodes to the subject’s temples in the bilateral ETC position and meet his eyes—eyes wide and glassy with fear, and a touch vacant with acceptance. Shallow affect doesn’t allow for a wide range of emotions, yet even a psychopath can fear their own demise.
I toggle the switch, and his body stiffens, muscles contracting with the induced seizure. A dark pool spreads along the white cotton sheet covering his lower half as he wets himself. His eyes roll into the back of his head, showing only the bloodshot white, as he bucks against the gurney.
At the predetermined time mark, I kill the switch. His body sags in relief. After unhooking him from the machine, I set the timer on my phone for five hours. That’s how long it took Blakely to come back to me. Even then, I carried her to the river and submerged her in cold water to fully revive her.
Haunting memories of that night return with a vengeance, the procedure forcing me to recall every achingly beautiful and painful moment. The feel of her fiery lips crashing against mine amid the frigid waterfall as it rained down on us. The tears that streaked her cheeks when her emotions soared to shattering heights.
The razor-sharp knife of despair plunged into my chest at her rejection.
The denial of her feelings that, although gutted me emotionally, also wounded my ego.
Looking back now, it’s so fucking clear. I should have called her out on her lies. I should have never let her go. I should have wrapped my arms around her and kissed her madly until her guarded walls came crashing down.
My fist slams into the metal table, and I only register the brief pain before blood seeps through the bandage.
I allowed her to manipulate my emotions, so I deserve my misery for being so weak.
If I had the clarity of hindsight, I would’ve told her the brutal truth: Love makes us crazy, baby. Welcome to the land of the feeling.
What Blakely doesn’t understand is that her capacity to feel was always there, it was just untapped. And we did more than tap it—we opened Pandora’s box. Maybe that did terrify me a little, made me question…everything.
I admit, I didn’t take into account the impact such a phenomenal change would have. I couldn’t have accounted for it; no one has ever succeeded where I have. There is no empirical data or test cases to compare. No warning labels.