Chapter 31 I Prefer Keraunophilia
I PREFER KERAUNOPHILIA
Fight Like A Girl - Emilie Autumn
Kookaburra
Three weeks.
That’s how long it takes for captivity to start looking like routine.
For the hum of lights to replace birdsong, for the absence of choice to masquerade as calm.
They call it acclimatisation; I call it conditioning.
Every breakfast tray, every check-in, every forced smile is another tiny experiment. I play my part, perfectly.
Doctor Callaway says the structure will help. Structure, she murmurs, the word smooth as a pill. She likes order, likes things that stay where she puts them. I like to watch her tidy the world – papers squared, pens aligned – because every neat surface is a mirror I can smudge.
I wake before the alarm now. Sit on the edge of the narrow bed, count the camera clicks. I wave sometimes, slow and lazy, so whoever’s on the other end knows I know.
Breakfast arrives on a tray: eggs, toast, orange juice, and a little white cup with my medication.
I drink the juice, hide the pills under my tongue until the guard leaves, then spit them into a tissue and flush them down the toilet.
I’ve learned to hold them perfectly still – no dissolve, no taste. Control is in the details.
By the time Doctor Callaway arrives, I’m already dressed. She likes that. Compliance, she calls it. I call it theatre. She sits opposite me in her usual chair, clipboard balanced on her knees, ankle crossed over ankle. Always poised. Always polite.
“How are we feeling today, Kayla?”
“Peaceful.”
The lie slides out like breath. She writes something.
“Any intrusive thoughts?”
“Only about your haircut.”
That earns a flicker of a smile. She thinks I’m joking. I am, but not about the part she should fear.
She starts her daily questions – sleep, appetite, mood.
I answer in soft, cooperative tones, let her believe the weeks are smoothing me out.
But while she talks about progress, I study her.
The small tension in her jaw when she mentions her supervisors.
The way her eyes dart to the camera whenever I say something that doesn’t fit the script.
She’s watched as much as I am. That’s useful.
The conversation drifts toward morality again – her favourite terrain. “You understand that what happened at the asylum was…extreme,” she says carefully. “Do you ever think about what led to your incarceration there? Do you think about remorse?”
“Every day.”
She brightens slightly. “That’s good.”
“I regret not finishing the job.”
Her pen stops. The smallest pause, less than a heartbeat, but I see it. “You’re joking.”
I tilt my head. “Sure.”
Later, she’ll note humour inappropriate but non-threatening. She’ll mark improvement. She’ll tell whoever she reports to that I’m stabilising. They’ll be pleased.
After lunch, I’m escorted to the greenhouse.
It’s my reward – fresh air filtered through glass and dust. The plants are struggling; the soil’s wrong, the humidity inconsistent.
I kneel in the dirt, gloved hands pretending care, and think about how easy it would be to hide a blade here.
Every handful of earth could swallow a secret.
Doctor Callaway watches from the doorway, arms folded. “You have a real talent for nurturing things,” she says.
“Even weeds?”
“Especially weeds.”
She means it kindly, but I hear the subtext: something resilient, invasive, hard to kill.
“Have you heard of actirasty?” I eventually ask her, to shut her up.
“Hmm? No? What’s that?”
I study her closely. The way she tilts her head back and lets the sunlight dance on her face – the illusion of freedom. She’s just as much a prisoner here as I am. Sentenced to be my minder for the duration of…well, for the duration.
“It’s a kink.”
She shifts uneasily. It’s funny to me, that she’s growing more comfortable with my violence and sardonic sense of humour as she calls it, but every time I mention sex she clams up like a prude.
“It’s when you experience arousal from sunlight or radiant warmth. I think you have it. Should probably get checked for that, Doc,” I tease.
Again, she squirms. And I carry on regardless. “Me though? I have lots of kinks, but not actirasty. I prefer keraunophilia.”
“What’s that?” she asks wearily.
“Arousal from storms. Thunder and lightning really do it for me.”
She pauses a beat, looking stunned, then murmurs, “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“What? You thought necrophilia would be more my style?”
She shudders, obviously knowing exactly what that one is. I smile. It’s a grotesque thing, designed to make her feel even more uncomfortable than she already is.
“I quite like dacryphilia, too. Tears. Not mine, of course. I wonder if there’s a kink for screams turning you on? Something more…extreme than sadism, you know? It’s not the pain, it’s the reaction that gets my blood pumping.”
She doesn’t take the bait. She changes the topic. “You know, Kayla…” she begins, not even realising that she’s mirroring my language. “We’re very lucky to have this outdoor space. I had to fight hard to get it for you. I think fresh air, especially in your condition, is important.”
She does that a lot – casually mentions my condition – to remind me that I’m human.
That I’m carrying, that I’m creating human life.
That I will one day be a mother. A role model.
She’s always trying to remind me of my humanity, ignoring the elephant in the room.
That someone, somewhere, for whatever reason, wants me kept alive for now.
So that they can take my baby when it’s born.
I’ll never be a mother. Don’t even want to be.
Every time she mentions the pregnancy, I ignore her or change the subject.
There is no baby growing inside of me. Just a parasite. One which will take my place when it arrives. And it’s welcome to. This is no life. I’m counting down the days until death claims me, but it’s a long way to go.
Instead, I hum noncommittally. I’ll have some fun before they take me.
While she talks, I listen to footsteps beyond the greenhouse – guards changing shifts.
The scrape of boots, the jingle of keys.
Patterns again. One is heavier, slower. That one stays near my door at night.
I haven’t seen his face clearly, but I can smell him when he passes: sweat, tobacco, something chemical. I file it away.
When we return inside, she leaves her badge on the table.
I move it half an inch closer to my side.
Her phone buzzes; she picks it up, turns away to answer.
“Yes, Director,” she says, voice clipped.
I can’t hear the other side, but the tone tells me everything.
Reporting. Justifying. Promising compliance. When she hangs up, she looks paler.
“Everything alright?” I ask sweetly.
“Routine update.”
I raise a brow. “About me?”
She hesitates. “About your progress.”
She once slipped – barely – and said I’m the only patient she’s been told she ‘cannot lose,’ and I’ve been turning that over ever since.
So, yes. Someone is measuring me through her. Someone high enough that she trembles when they call. Interesting.
What I can’t work out is who. Is it the same side Seytan works for, or someone different?
Obviously, I think I’m fascinating, but why so many outside agencies are taking such an interest in me, in this pregnancy, is beyond me.
That night I lie awake and think about the chain of command. Doctor Callaway doesn’t decide my future; she follows orders. Whoever signs those orders is the one who wants me alive. That’s leverage waiting to be found. They don’t keep monsters for study unless they’re planning to use them.
Two days later, I test her. The slower guard – the one who smells of chemicals – tries to touch my arm while I’m pruning roses. Not an accident. He lingers. I let him. For a second. Then I press the shears against his wrist until the skin dimples.
He jerks back, swearing. Blood beads on his flesh. Doctor Callaway rushes forward, voice tight, telling me to drop the tool. I do. I raise my hands, palms open, expression docile. “He touched me,” I say. “That’s against protocol.”
The guard mutters an apology, backing away. Doctor Callaway sends him off to the infirmary. When she turns back, I expect the lecture – anger, disappointment, a reminder of trust. Instead she exhales slowly.
“I should report this,” she says.
“Will you?”
Another pause. Then, softly, “No. It would complicate things.”
Complicate. That means draw attention. That means someone might ask why you can’t control your subject. She’s protecting herself – and by extension, me. Because she’s been told to.
That night she brings me chamomile tea. “For sleep,” she says. “You’ve been restless.”
I take it, smile, set it untouched on the nightstand. “You’re very kind, Doctor.”
“I believe everyone deserves the chance to be better,” she replies automatically.
“And if they can’t be?”
She studies me. “Then we keep them safe until they can.”
“Safe for whom?”
She doesn’t answer.
Days blur. Therapy, gardening, evaluations. I play the model patient, adjusting my behaviour just enough to feed her narrative. I start dropping subtle hints about forgiveness, redemption, the power of choice. She eats it up, quoting textbooks back at me.
In the evenings, she lingers longer before leaving.
Sometimes she tells me small personal things – her dislike of the fluorescent lights, her craving for real coffee, the migraines that won’t stop.
I respond with empathy I don’t feel. Every confession binds her tighter.
She’s rationalising me: if I’m human, she’s not complicit.
I think about the order that keeps her silent.
Keep the subject alive. It explains the rest – the cameras, the guards, the sedatives that don’t sedate.
Whoever’s behind it doesn’t want redemption; they want preservation.
Maybe Seytan. Maybe another face from the dark. Whoever it is, they’ve made a mistake.
I’m alive. I’m learning.
The test escalates one quiet afternoon. Doctor Callaway brings me lunch in her office.
We eat together – soup and crackers, ordinary, domestic.
When she turns to the sink, I slide her badge into my sleeve and then, before leaving, place it back on the counter exactly where it was.
She doesn’t notice. I feel giddy. Power always tastes clean.
In the following days I adjust the medication charts, “accidentally” over-sedate a guard who has a habit of standing too close. He sleeps for fourteen hours. When he wakes, disoriented, she blames herself. I tell her it’s okay, that mistakes happen. Her gratitude is pathetic.
By the third week’s end, she looks at me differently. Less like a subject, more like a partner in some strange moral experiment. I can feel her trying to convince herself that we’re healing each other. She wants to believe she’s saving me. I’ll let her. Until I won’t.
Tonight the halls are quiet. The lights hum softly, the way they do when the generators switch over. I sit on the bed, legs crossed, rolling the pill bottle between my hands. The cameras blink. The building smells faintly of bleach and soil.
I lift the bottle, shake it so the tablets clatter like teeth. Then I look straight at the red light above the door. “You’re still watching, aren’t you?” My voice is calm, almost tender. “Good. You wouldn’t want to miss the ending.”
The light flickers once. Maybe a power surge. Maybe a signal. Either way, I smile. The guard’s bloodstain on my cuff has faded to a soft brown halo; when I rub it, it warms. I lie back and close my eyes.
Three weeks in. The doctor trusts me. The staff are half asleep. The doors remember the taste of freedom. So do I.
My stomach’s heavier in the mornings now – just a whisper of change – but I refuse to give it attention.
And somewhere out there, the men who think they lost me are still searching. Coming for me. Promising vengeance seeped in blood.
I hope they hurry.
Because by the time they arrive, there won’t be anyone left to rescue.