Chapter Twenty
Declan
“Hello Declan.” Dr. Campos’ voice echoes throughout the sex warehouse, though I don’t see him anywhere. Miss Paxon’s here, still with a shitty smirk across her face, after just slapping the shit out of my dick. And it fucking hurt. But, also, I think I liked it.
Get your shit together.
“Where am I?” I ask in a loud tone, still determined to get an answer.
Without a response, the ground rumbles and the harsh sound of rocks grinding together ripples around me, causing me to latch on to my wooden post for balance. I check the expression on Miss Paxon’s face, but she doesn’t seem the least bit concerned.
After a couple breaths, the wall at the far end of the room ahead of me begins into the floor, revealing floor to ceiling window with a room on the other side.
It’s nothing like mine. I can see Doctor Campos sitting in an oversized leather chair behind an ivory desk in an office with windows for walls on all sides.
Am I in Dr. Petrovic’s office?
Uncertain of what I’m staring at, I lean my face forward as far as my neck and body will allow, but who am I kidding?
A few inches aren’t going to reveal anything.
The office is surrounded by rocky hills and sandy fields just outside.
This can’t be his house, but I’m clueless where we could be otherwise.
“Declan,” Dr. Campos says, “I’m sure you’re quite perplexed by your current predicament.
I’d like to help you come to terms with—all of this.
You and I, and of course my delectable little helper, Miss Paxon, are in two soundproof rooms, separated by a transparent wall.
” He points to the translucent partition through which I’m watching him and drones on in an arrogant tone.
“With the lighting, I’m not sure you can see them, but there are small speakers built into the ceilings, each doubling as microphones.
This will allow us to communicate without the threat of physical harm. Well, at least to me.”
“Where am I, Dr. Campos?” I ask with an unwavering steadiness in my eyes.
“Where are you?” the doctor repeats. “Tell me Declan, where do you think you are?”
“If I knew,” I say with impatience, ”I’d be asking a different question.”
The last thing I remember is being in his office, the one by the patio, when he—stabbed me, I think.
Miss Paxon, who I’m eye fucking while it all comes back, came waltzing in, looking like a certified smoke show.
Next thing I know, I’m waking up in a fucking dungeon.
I don’t know where. Hell, I don’t even know when.
I point over the doctor’s shoulder and say, “The sun is shining bright over the hills behind you. The sun was nowhere to be seen when we were talking before, nor were the hills. So, I’ll ask again doctor, where am I?”
“That’s very observant of you Declan,” Dr. Campos says.
“The substance used to sedate you affects everyone differently. You’ve been out—” He stops to think.
“—for a little more than a day. As for where you are Declan, that’s not important.
All you need to know is that you’re here, and you aren’t going anywhere for the time being.
This facility belonged to a former colleague of mine.
I use it to—” Dr. Campos pauses again to consider his words. “—study people of particular interest.”
“What the hell are you talking about doctor?” I quip. He has quickly become my least favorite doctor.
“You woke up in the room that will be yours until further notice,” says the doctor, ignoring my inquiry.
“It is complete with a bed, a toilet, and a sink. Meals will be given to you three times daily. When you’re not eating, sleeping or using the shitter, you will be exactly where you are now—tied to what Miss Paxon’s friends call a breeding post.”
“What?” I ask with hurried surprise. “You can’t keep me here.” Fear begins to set in, and I feel myself becoming frantic. “Let me out of here doctor. I don’t have time for this. Let me out of here now.”
“One way or another Declan,” says Dr. Campos in a demented pitch. “You will give me answers.”
Aside from my first time spent getting an MRI, I have never been scared of confined spaces. But looking at the man before me, claustrophobia sets in.
Is this what “terrorists” held for questioning feel like?
“Declan,” the doctor says in a kingly tenor from his throne, “I’m going to tell you a story, and I want you to pay attention to the details of this particular story.
I’m going to walk you through the last interview I conducted before my retirement.
Though I could be wrong, I believe it will prove to be of great importance for you. ”
“Where’s your crown doc?” I ask mockingly, less than impressed by my captor’s arrogant vibe.
Dr. Campos stands up from his royal chair, and walks towards the clear wall, pulling a smaller seat behind him, eventually stopping within a few feet of the glass divider, where he sits back down.
He has yet another file in his hand. But this one’s different.
I can tell. It looks old. It’s a shade of faded charcoal, covered in pen marks and coffee stains, and the spine is coming apart.
“I pulled this—” He waves it in front of his face. “—from a box I keep in an old storage container.”
I notice what might be old tapes fastened to the inside cover when he flips it open, and numerous documents.
I can’t tell from here. Dr. Campos turns to a specific section in the middle of the file and sifts through its pages, until he finds exactly what he’s looking for.
The file may be old, but the doctor knows precisely where the information he wants is located.
“Now Declan,” says the doctor, “as I mentioned before, aside from my primary duties at the state hospital, I also worked a regular set of pro-bono hours at a local clinic.” He stops to allow me to acknowledge the duplicated information, which I guess is fine given my memory may not have fully returned.
“My time at the clinic was much different than anything else I did, which is why I enjoyed the extra work. However, ten or so years ago, I met with a young woman at the clinic, a woman whose circumstances altered my life forever.” He looks uncomfortable just thinking about what he’s going to say.
Taking a moment to wipe his mouth and adjust his glasses, he continues.
“She wasn’t the worst patient I’d seen by any means Declan.
Sure, she was probably schizophrenic, I hardly doubted it.
I had dealt with many schizos far worse off than her.
However, her break from reality crossed into a dangerous area.
” He stops again, making sure I’m following along.
Please get to the point.
“Let me the fuck out of here, Doc,” I shout, yanking on my restraints, hoping they’ll break. “You can’t keep me here.”
“Please Declan.” The doctor holds a finger to his mouth, signaling me to keep mine shut, ignoring my rude interruption.
“The young woman had been coming to the clinic for quite some time,” he continued without a hitch, as if he’d told the story a thousand times.
“I made myself quite familiar with her file before we met. Her biggest issue was that she had convinced herself she wasn’t crazy, as most insane folks do, and she wasn't taking any of the medications she had been prescribed.
Normally, her doctors or the state could have stepped in to do something, but they couldn't get a judge to sign off on a protective order, and the police were stretched too thin to give the matter any attention. Instead—” The doctor sighs.
“—she was allowed to live her life as she saw fit, and so, she went without the help she needed.”
“Dr. C,” I say, irritated. “I remember you showing me a file with Daphne’s picture before you had me sedated and imprisoned. I may not be the world’s smartest man, but if this isn’t about Daphne, I don’t know how it’s relevant.”
“Please Declan,” says Dr. Campos, “let me tell my story. This will take far too long if you keep interrupting me. In fact, if you keep it up, I’m going to let Miss Paxon help you comply.
” He gives her a little nod, then continues.
“As I was saying, the young woman was very troubled. But you aren’t going to take what I’m saying seriously, so instead, I’m going to play the recording of our last session.
We’ll see how cynical you are afterward. ”
Dr. Campos turns back to the inside cover of the file and removes one of the tapes I could see. Then, he stands from his seat and walks back toward his desk, where he presses something—a button, perhaps.
Who is this guy?
The sounds of more mechanical parts moving whiz through the speakers overhead.
A little door pops open in front of Dr. C, into which he pushes the tape and then sits down.
I glance at Miss Paxon, still at my side and ready to act.
I’m not sure if I should be frightened or excited, but I suppose we’ll find out.
Dr. C closes what I now assume must be a tape player, and then static starts filling the room.
“This is Doctor Emmanuel Campos.” The recording begins playing overhead, and I recognize the doctor’s cadence. “I will be recording this session with patient—please state your name and age dear.”
“Daphne Brooks,” a woman’s voice responds. “I’m twenty-seven.”