6. Chapter 6
Chapter 6
Avery
It takes several hours before the drugs start to wear off. At some stage, the dizziness overwhelmed me and vomit now covers the floor around me.
My body is tired, unable to move as I lay sprawled out. Part of me wishes I was dead so I could end this suffering, while a larger part whispers to me to keep fighting.
All of us have lost too much already. I'm not prepared to be another faded memory to Theo and Grey. They would never forgive themselves for not being able to save me. I wish I could believe that they'd be fine if I was dead, but I know it's a lie.
Grey would detonate, destroying everything in his path. Truthfully, I think Theo would do the same. Their actions would cost them their place in Lilydale, and they'd be shoved into the federal prison system for the rest of their lives. In turn, Damon would lose his right-hand man—and Cirque des Morts would go down in a fiery death.
I was too angry to see it before, but it's becoming clear now. The society isn't the power-tripping hierarchy I thought it was. They are the protectors from the real monsters in Lilydale. Is that what Damon meant by secrets? Was he protecting us all along?
If that's the case, I can't let these people win. Even if I'm going to die down here, I have to fight, otherwise more lives will be lost. Maybe that was my purpose all this time.
Still…
It's hard to drown out that little voice inside that wants to give up. There's a war inside my head—the difference is one side is fueled by my father's words, telling me I'm worthless, and making me believe I'm unlovable. The other side is a battleground, held up by the love I've come to know and receive.
It's stronger—because I'm not my father. While he didn't care enough to fight for me, when he damn well should have, my love is strong. I'll make sacrifices for the people I love. I'll fight for them, just as I know they are fighting for me.
I may not have known love, but we can still learn it. We don't have to become our trauma. We don't have to become the people who made us.
I'll never be him.
The door opens to the room and I lift my head weakly, mustering a glare at Dr. West. There's a butterfly bandage on his cheek and a red mark on his nose, and I can't help but feel a little sick sense of pride. He stares back at me with a touch of frustration, but remains composed.
"We'll be transporting you to an observation room," he says coolly, my eyes drifting to the doorway as three guards enter this time.
They lift me off the ground, careful to avoid the vomit, as they drag my incapacitated body from the room. I don't struggle—instead, I take the time to look around for anything that could help my escape. It just looks like a regular hospital, an administration station halfway down the hall, surrounded by closed rooms.
The staff are wearing key cards—some around their neck on lanyards, others dangling from their belts. I could try to steal one, but it's useless without the code.
As we approach a closed door, I squint my eyes as Dr. West types in the code. His body partially blocks my view, but I definitely see the number nine get pressed.
A buzzing noise brings me out of my thoughts as one of the guards pushes open the door, the room already bright with lights. I spot the familiar chair in the center of the room with leather straps, surrounded by machines. It reminds me of the first room I was in, but there's a large white drop-down screen positioned in front of the chair.
The guards throw me onto the chair, immediately reaching for the straps so as to not give me any opportunity to move. As I'm tied down, I spot Dr. Cromwell enter, her eyes carefully avoiding mine as she heads to a machine. It's a stark change in behavior, but I don't pay her any mind. She doesn't deserve my sympathy or pity—she made her choices.
Dr. West starts attaching small metal disks to my head, making me jerk away. It's useless as always, my body secured tightly against the chair. To my right, Dr. Cromwell wraps a tourniquet around my arm, grabbing a needle and syringe from a medical dish. She promptly stabs me, drawing blood as I let out a hiss.
"What are you doing?" I finally ask, watching as she seals the vial of blood and gives it a little shake.
Are they going to electrocute me again?
"Just taking a before sample," she mutters quietly.
I glance back at her colleague, eyes narrowing. "A before sample for what?"
Dr. West flicks his gaze to me lazily. "We're conducting a study on how electrical and chemical synapses in the brain respond to various emotions but release the same hormone—endorphins."
"That's not really a secret," I grumble. "Scientists well beyond your wisdom already know how that works."
His jaw ticks slightly at my insult. "It's a subjective test."
Meaning… You're the subject.
"Well, if you want to know what my brain looks like when I'm pissed off, then you'll have your answer."
The screen powers up in front of me, my attention automatically pulled away as curiosity gets the better of me. It's blank, illuminating a bright light, and I'm interested in finding out how they intend to change my feelings of anger. It's dominating, cloudy, and overwhelming—I'll never be happy down here.
"I've made a note with the time of the drug trial in case there's lingering analgesic in her system," Dr. Cromwell says. "The electroencephalogram is ready to go."
"Great," Dr. West responds. "Start the first test now."
She presses the machine button, the sound of it whirling to life, but thankfully, I feel nothing. The room falls silent as the two doctors watch the machine screen, making notes on their clipboard.
The minutes pass torturously slow, a clock on the wall ticking. The sound starts to send me insane, the ominous tick, tick, tick over and over while scratches are scribbled onto paper. Finally, the machine comes to a halt.
Dr. Cromwell grabs a fresh needle, drawing another vial of blood while Dr. West moves behind me, hitting the keys on a laptop. The screen in front of me comes to life, a video ready to be played.
I frown, confused. "What is this?"
"We're going to now check your neurological activity and endorphin levels while feeling pain. Don't worry though—it's not physical."
As I turn my confused gaze to Dr. Cromwell, I notice she's still refusing to look at me. Frustrated, I shoot back a reply to Dr. West.
"I'm not scared of horror movies if that's your plan. I've been through far worse than anything depicted in a fictional scene."
"Melanie, please start the machine again," he says, ignoring me.
The familiar whirling takes off again as Dr. West presses play on the video. I roll my eyes, deciding to indulge them for a second. As the clip plays, I instantly recognize Lilydale. The gray uniforms, copious amounts of sickening roses, and some familiar faces.
There must be a speaker somewhere in the room as voices echo around us, matching the video. As I watch curiously, clinging to that hope at the sight of my home , my eyebrows raise when I spot Grey crossing the path of the unsuspecting camera. The scene changes, taking us to the library. Grey is there again, pacing quietly by himself.
Is this right now? Is this live footage?
He looks exactly the same, except he's deep in thought. He even digs into his pocket, pulling out two candy bars.
"What is this?" I breathe out, confusion washing over me.
My eyes are glued to the screen, desperately trying to claw at reality. Is he thinking of me? Are they planning on saving me?
Suddenly, the sound of the library door off-screen opens, and Grey looks up, his eyes lighting up at the apparent appearance of the newcomer.
"Hey," he says warmly, catching me off-guard.
Footsteps slowly grow louder, my stomach turning as I try to make sense of this. Blonde hair comes into frame, my mouth dry as a beautiful woman appears.
"Sorry, I'm late," she whispers happily. "I had to wait for Jillian to program my door so I could leave the room."
Who is this?
Grey grins at her, holding up a candy bar. "Your favorite."
What?
I don't even realize that my breathing is getting ragged, heavy with small silent gasps. I can't look away, not even for a second, as I watch my worst nightmares come to fruition.
The chocolate becomes abandoned as Grey embraces her, kissing her softly. Her green eyes close, body relaxing into his as they hold each other.
I feel sick, vomit threatening to spill again from my empty stomach. Their clothes slowly come off, and I find myself burning holes into the screen, trying to check for the distinctive marks on his body—anything to prove it's not him. But there they are—the red scar on his neck, the tattoo on his body… even his nails are painted their usual black.
It's definitely him— My Grey .
Something hitting my chest shocks me, and I realize it's tears. The salty taste on my lips corroborates the truth—it's not fake footage.
"What is this?" I manage to ask again, choking back tears.
"Live footage," Dr. West answers sharply, eyes never wavering from the machine screen.
I finally look away when they start having sex on the tables—No, when they start making love. It's obvious he cares for her, touching her in all the same places he touches me.
"Turn it off," I demand through a cracked voice, unable to escape the sounds of their moans. "I don't want to hear anymore."
"It's nearly done," Dr. West replies, not moving from his place. "Keep watching."
I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut.
"Everyone will leave ya, Avery. No one will want to stick around for a pathetic excuse of a person."
Right on cue, my father makes his appearance, repeating the words over and over. My chest is tight, heart beating fast as I try to fight back more tears. It feels like I might die, torn apart from the inside out.
Everyone leaves me. I should have known better. I never should have let anyone in. Letting people in only leads to agony, betrayal, and pain.
You still have Theo…
No. He'll leave me too.
They all will.
"The test is complete," Dr. Cromwell murmurs. "I'll draw more blood."
I barely feel the sting of the needle for the third time, piercing my already bruised skin. The pain inside is far greater than everything they can do to me.
"What a remarkable difference in activity," I hear Dr. West say happily. "Have them expedite the pathology results so we can compare."
"I'll run them to the lab now."
Hands grab the straps, freeing me from the chair, but I'm limp. The guards lift me, dragging my legs along the ground as I'm taken back to the white room. At least I'm placed more gently on the ground this time. But it doesn't matter—I'm already broken.
They aren't coming. No one is.
So, this is how my story ends—a fitting epilogue to the already fucked-up series of events that led me here.
The voice in my mind telling me to fight starts to fade, replaced by defeat. It weakly mutters to not give up.
But how can I not?
I don't have anything to fight for. I'm alone—maybe I've been alone all this time.
They wouldn't leave you. They love you.
It's a desperate scream in my mind, quickly silenced by the images of Grey kissing another girl. I want to believe what my heart is telling me, but my head is at war.
Be rational. Be strong.
How? How do I be strong? I don't know what's real anymore. I don't know how long I've been down here. It feels like forever.
You have to believe in them, believe that they are coming.
I'm tired. I've tried to fight. I don't want to give up, but I'm tired.
Tired of all the pain. I'm sick of fighting a losing battle. Life is meant to be hard—but not like this.
Maybe it wasn't live footage. Maybe they were just trying to hurt you for their tests.
The last part I believe without a doubt. And in my heart, I know that little voice is probably right. Theo and Grey wouldn't do that to me—Damon either. But even with the exhausted fight left in me, the thought that I could be left behind, stirs up a fear of abandonment I had fought against by being distant from people long before I came to Lilydale. It's hard to fight against all you've ever known.
It's a reminder of everything I've suffered up until this point. It's the reality of my trauma, making me realize that perhaps Dr. Smith was right all along. I needed to heal those insecurities harboring inside, keeping my mind hostage.
Take a nap. Gather your energy. It will become clearer soon.
And finally, I give in to the voice, my body drifting off into slumber as I try to escape the narrative planted by the monsters in white coats. I hold onto my own version of events, gripping the tether between me and them.
Just hold on a little longer, Avery. Don't let go.