Chapter Forty-Two
Declan
While it should seem a miracle that I can fall asleep after the torment endured at the hands of Doctor Campos and Miss Paxon, the one benefit of pure exhaustion is consciousness stops being an option at some point.
Two hours into a peaceful slumber, I’m startled by the popping of firecrackers above me.
My body hurls itself upright, where I’m quickly met with disorienting blackness and stabbing pains in my soles.
The sharp sensation forces me back into a sitting position, where I reach down to touch my feet and notice several shards sticking out of the balls and heels.
I grab one and pull it out like Arthur and his mythical sword. It’s a piece of glass—of a light bulb.
It wasn’t firecrackers.
“Aaaaaahhhhh!” a woman’s voice screams from somewhere off in the distance, echoing throughout the stone prison. Instinctively, my head spins in the direction of the goosebump-inducing sound.
“What are you doing?” the chilling voice asks. It sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place it.
“What do you mean?” I respond with a lack of certainty.
“You cannot trust Dr. Campos,” the voice declares.
“Who are you? Who is there?” I ask, my eyes squinting as I try to locate the source.
“Do you not recognize my voice, Missster Roberts?” the voice asks, nearly sounding disappointed.
“Miss Paxon?” I respond, wincing as I pull another splinter from my foot. “Is that you? Why can’t I see you? What happened to the lights? What do you want?”
“You mustn’t tell the doctor anything else,” she insists, her tone firm. “Do you understand?” Her burning red eyes pierce through the darkness, the only part of her I can perceive.
“I don’t understand anything at this point,” I admit, frustration creeping in. “Not you, not where I am, not what’s going on. None of it.”
“Dr. Campos will betray you,” the voice taunts. “He’s only interested in his own agenda. He never intended to help you.”
“If you know he can’t be trusted, help me,” I plead, unsure of who to believe. It’s not like she’s innocent in any of this.
“This will all be over soon enough,” she responds cryptically.
“But you must be patient. I’m here to help you, Missster Roberts.
However, if you keep telling the doctor these,” she pauses, “stories, the doctor will only become more obsessed with finding Daphne and his precious friend, and you’ll never be free.
Think about everything he’s done to you already.
The torture. The injections. The demonstrations carried out at his command.
Has he ever done anything that actually benefits you, or has it all been on his terms? ”
Well yeah, but you did most of those—
“But nothing,” she interrupts.
Can she hear my thoughts?
“He is using you, and you must not let it continue. Heed my warning, Missster Roberts.”
“What will he do to me next if I stop cooperating?” I question, anxiety mingling with doubt, but there’s no reply. Those cherry-red eyes vanish, leaving me alone, wrestling with uncertainty.
My body tenses, and I can't quite shake off the prolonged chill her presence leaves behind.
Doubt grates over my insides. What if she's right? What if Dr. Campos is just using me? Then again, why would I trust a visibly insane woman who violated me? Better yet, why am I not more infuriated about everything she’s done to me?
Is it whatever they drugged me with, or did I—like it?
I drag myself to my feet, ignoring the stinging pain from the splinters. The darkness feels oppressive, like it's closing in around me. I need to focus, to think clearly. But my thoughts are a jumbled mess, fragments of memories and questions swirling together.
What was real? The injections, certainly.
The demonstrations? God, I can still feel the restraints cutting into my wrists.
The thought of electricity sizzling in my blood when my answer isn’t what the doctor expected sends preemptive shocks across my chest. And the unexpected ecstasy of Miss Paxon reducing me to furniture, posed for her amusement, sends another sort of heat to my groin.
But Daphne. Was she real? The warmth of her hand in mine felt real. The subtle scent of her sweet floral perfume smelled real when it lingered in the air around me. The savory tenderness of her kiss. The conversations we shared beneath starlight. They were real. Weren’t they?
I press my palms against my temples, trying to sort through the fog, and my inner self stares back at me, a stranger with hollow eyes and trembling hands.
How much of me is still me?