11. Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Avery
I'm dragged out of bed with the first sign of morning light, feet barely getting a chance to touch the floor.
As the guard pulls me down the hall, I'm happy to find we're heading in the opposite direction of the bathrooms and toilets. Given my lack of sleep last night, I don't trust myself with chemicals. Hell, I don't trust myself enough not to fall asleep with my head in the toilet like my father used to do after a night of heavy drinking.
When we reach the door at the end of the rooms, I find myself in the main entrance of Lilydale. Despite being early, I spot Mr. Whittingham in his office, the door wide open.
I'm shoved inside by the guard, stumbling three steps before Mr. Whittingham even bothers to look up.
"Good Morning, Ms. White," he says in an annoyed tone.
"Hello," I mumble back, peeking over my shoulder to see the guard slam the door shut behind him as he exits.
"Take a seat."
Frowning, I sit down on the other side of Mr. Whittingham's desk, watching as he takes a sip of hot coffee.
"I trust your return has gone well," he asks, tone indicating that he doesn't give a shit either way.
I nod, unsure how to answer. "It's been fine."
"Your psych assessment was done by Dr. Smith. No concerns apparently," he trails off sarcastically. "And I'm sure you are aware I've been allocating special tasks for you."
Clenching my jaw, I just nod again. I'm fairly confident my nose hairs are now permanently singed from bleach.
Mr. Whittingham leans back in his chair, eyes falling to my hands resting in my lap. It takes me a moment to pick up on his curiosity, before frustration awakens me. Obviously he's been made aware of the burns, but judging by his glance, I wasn't scorched enough.
"How long do you need me to do the special tasks for?" I ask a little too bluntly.
It's way too early for interrogation. After the events of the Cirque des Morts meeting and the little sleep I managed, my filter ability is somewhat lacking today.
"As long as I please," he snarls back. "Now, do you have anything to report back to me?"
My eyes narrow. Does he know that Damon held a meeting last night?
I assume that he knows about the society, but I have no idea how much exactly.
I shake my head. "Nope."
Mr. Whittingham glares at me. "Are you sure?"
"Positive."
We enter into a stare-off for a few seconds, the frustration evident on his morning face. Slowly, he looks away, grabbing a bunch of paperwork.
"I need these sorted alphabetically."
I'm caught off-guard, jerking slightly like I've been hit with a rubber band. "Oh, alright."
There's not too many in the pile—it should be relatively easy.
He pauses, pointing to the corner of his office behind me. "Those as well."
Turning my head, I glance over my shoulder, eyes widening at the seven enormous stacks of paper.
Mr. Whittingham stands up, walking over to the corner. I rise to my feet as well, watching in horror as he kicks over the first pile with his foot. The pile scatters all over the ground, in turn, knocking over the next one.
It's a sea of white, my body sagging in disbelief.
"And I need them done this morning," he muses, folding his arms.
There's no way it's possible. I know it, he knows it.
Before I can speak again, he raises an eyebrow. "Unless, of course, there's something else we need to discuss first. Anything at all."
Our eyes meet, the glint in his challenging me. He definitely knows something went down—he's testing me.
That's his mistake though. He might flaunt whatever title he has, but there's bigger, scarier people here.
"Nothing at all," I remark defiantly, dropping to my knees in front of the stacks.
I can feel his anger next to me, a tense silence filling the room.
Giving a little huff under his breath, he walks back to his desk, slamming a few things in the process.
I never thought I'd see the day where I'd be loyal to Damon, but I guess even Hell can freeze over.
Scanning the first piece of paper, I find the corresponding letter, making smaller, separate piles to stack them.
And then I repeat it, over and over, until I have lots of tiny paper cuts on the tips of my fingers.
Sometime later, I hear the bell signaling for breakfast, but I already know that I won't be allowed to eat. Thankfully, the food from last night has given me the energy to be a stubborn little shit, holding Mr. Whittingham to his challenge.
A couple of times I scan over the contents of the paperwork, noticing it relates to patients. I'm not surprised though—the staff have already made it clear that ethical boundaries mean nothing in a place like Lilydale.
Some names I recognize, others I don't. And as I take note of dates, it dawns on me that this paperwork probably doesn't even need to be sorted. Multiple pages have 'copy' stamped across them, and judging by all the modern technology around the place, I'd be willing to bet that most things are electronically saved.
This is just another torture method since scrubbing floors and shit stains hasn't done the job.
Eventually, halfway through the mountain of sorting, a guard pops his head in the door, motioning for Mr. Whittingham.
"White is due for her appointments with Dr. Smith and Dr. Markel."
I'm not sure whether to feel relieved or annoyed. Another day in a row where I'm forced to interact with those two idiots, but a blessing in disguise to get away from this task.
"Fine," Mr. Whittingham snaps, glancing down at me. "We will continue later. Get her out of here."
The guard harshly pulls me up from the ground, making me yell out. "I can walk you know!"
Ignoring me, I'm shoved through the doorway, eyes landing on Teddy at the reception desk. She turns up her nose at me, muttering something under her breath. I don't catch it though, already pushed through the other doors, back into the secured area.
"You can let her go, thank you," Dr. Smith snarls at the guard when we reach the doorway. "She's more than capable of using her own limbs."
"That's what I'm saying," I growl, ripping my arm out of his grip.
My appreciation for Dr. Smith is short-lived when I enter his office, noticing a board game set up on the floor.
"What the hell is this?" I ask.
He smiles from his desk, standing up. "Have you played chess before?"
I raise an eyebrow. "Not really."
"It's quite simple once you get the hang of it," he muses, kneeling in front of the board. "I'll explain it to you."
I don't move, standing by the door as I glare at him incredulously. Dr. Smith sighs softly, tilting his head to the side.
"Sit down, Avery. Isn't it exhausting always being on ?"
"It's exhausting being here," I tell him. "And having to deal with your weird tactics. What psycho bullshit are we doing today?"
He smiles knowingly, only motioning again for me to sit.
Begrudgingly, I walk over, dropping to the ground. I've seen chess boards before at school. Lake St. Louis High was pretty proud of their extra-curricular clubs. Unfortunately, I wasn't allowed to join any, but I was forced to watch a school championship chess match in my junior year. It was the single most boring thing to watch—more deafening than a Wimbledon tennis match.
"It's a strategy game," Dr. Smith starts, fixing up a few pieces. "We have sixteen pieces each. The aim is to capture the king."
I take a wild guess at which one is the king, lifting it up with my fingers. "Got it."
He laughs. "The opponent's king. Essentially, you have to trap it. I believe Wikipedia refers to it as threatening the king with inescapable capture ."
"Kings are meant to be powerful though," I mumble back. "A good king would never allow himself to be caught."
"Exactly. But in chess, you control the pieces. While the king might be powerful, he means nothing without the control and protection of the board."
My eyebrows furrow. "Interesting theory you have there, Dr. Smith."
He smiles. "In fact, the most powerful piece on the chess board is the queen."
My head snaps up as I glance at him suspiciously. What the hell is he talking about? There's a slight shift in tone to his voice, making me think we're no longer talking about chess.
In theory we're talking about it, but with Dr. Smith, there's always a hidden motive. I have no doubt that today's session is more than meets the eye. I might not know much about chess, but I know it's a psychological game of strategy. We're doing this for a reason… and for once, I can't help but suspect it's nothing to do with my mental state.
"Right," I answer nonchalantly. "And these?" I point to a few pieces.
"Pawns."
"How fitting," I mumble sarcastically. "We're really just going to play chess?"
Dr. Smith laughs, getting comfortable in a sitting position. "We could talk about your feelings if you like."
"Chess, it is."
After giving me a brief rundown of the pieces and available moves, we start our game. I'm so confused—he should have just given me a Rubik's Cube to solve. But as we progress, I start to get the hang of things. Clearly, I'm no match for him though. He easily beats me with a smug look.
"We'll play again tomorrow," he says, gesturing to a clock on the wall.
I'm surprised to find the hour session has already passed. Right on schedule, the door opens as the guard looks inside, frowning in confusion at us on the ground. He stays quiet though, stepping forward to reach for me before Dr. Smith snaps at him firmly.
"She can walk. I'm sure she's more than capable of walking down the hallway to Dr. Markel's office."
I give him a rare smile of appreciation, heading out the door. It's nice not being manhandled for five minutes, even though I want to choke him with a rook.
The trip to the doctor is quick—some more ointment, general questions about my health, and a goodbye.
Afterwards, I'm taken back to Whittingham's office, stomach growling. When I enter, he's not alone.
Familiar salt and pepper hair, dressed in a suit worth more than my existence. The two men look at me as I enter, and it's easy to feel the difference in power between them. While Whitface pretends to hold power, the older man exudes it.
"Ms. White. Welcome back," Mr. Whittingham says. "Before you continue, I believe you've met already."
A hostile glance comes my way, and I give a brief nod. "Yes."
"I'll be in touch, Arthur," Alexander murmurs. "Keep me updated."
I swallow nervously, not wanting to deal with Alexander, but thankfully, he just gives me a cold glare before disappearing out of the room.
It takes a few seconds for my nervous system to calm back down, and I awkwardly point to the pile of paperwork. "Shall I continue?"
Mr. Whittingham nods. "You've been excused from class today. I imagine you won't be done by free time either," he taunts, sitting down in his chair. "Once you've sorted the piles alphabetically, I also expect each individual letter to be in alphabetical order based on surname."
My eyes scan over the paperwork. I should have seen this coming, to be fair.
Holding back a sigh, I perch myself on the ground and get to work.
It's going to be a long day.