Like I’m an object they can examine.
A specimen under a microscope.
A toy to use.
I grit my teeth and scrunch my eyes, forcing those thoughts away. I can’t think like that. I need to focus.
The filing cabinet catches my attention. The top drawer is partially open, files are pooling out of the second drawer, and rust speckles the bottom of the cabinet. It’s reflective of everything in the asylum. Used. Abandoned. Forgotten.
But I’m here. And Dr. Ambrose will be here soon.
I’m not here for myself, I repeat inwardly. I’m definitely not here because of some messed-up fantasies I may or may not actually have. I’m here for my mother. I’m here because I’m going to kill him.
Metal twists in the lock. The door flies open. My throat constricts. Nerves drip down to my stomach.
Dr. Ambrose enters and towers over me. He beams down his curved nose, amusement pursing his lips. His jaw ticks. A clinical and acidic aroma fills the room, as if his mere presence can swallow everything it comes into contact with.
And his full attention is on me.
He rolls the stool over to the exam table and sits in front of me.
“Feet in the stirrups,” he commands.
I put my feet in the metal footrests and angle my knees inward. I have to do this, I remind myself. This is part of getting his guard down. Just because you’re doing what he says, doesn’t mean you’ve given in.
“Move your hips down so we can see you, Miss Ward,” Dr. Ambrose adds. “Your boyfriend told me about your exhibitionist tendencies. Don’t hide when you know you want to be seen.”
Electricity surges from between my thighs down to my toes. I’m not actually an exhibitionist. I suggested using it as a “reason” for Benji’s fake concerns about my sexual behavior.
But a tiny part of me wonders if it is true. Do I want to be seen like this? Maybe I do.
But I don’t want to be seen by Dr. Ambrose.
Chapter 7
Violet
As I stare at the decaying ceiling, I console myself. I chose to be here, I think. The acid is right under us. Follow the rules. Get close to him. Then kill the motherfucker.
“Do I need to repeat myself?” Dr. Ambrose grunts. “Move. Your. Hips. Down.”
Follow the rules. Get close to him. Then kill.
I quickly force myself down to the edge of the table, not giving myself a chance to question why Dr. Ambrose wants to see my pussy up close. The assistant removes an attached flashlight from the side of the exam table. A spotlight shines between my legs right as Dr. Ambrose’s icy fingers pull my lower lips apart.
I gasp. Don’t most gynecologists warm their hands before an exam like this?
“You’re freezing!” I shriek and jerk up. “Dr. Ambrose?—”
“Hush now,” he says.
His filthy nails dig into my hips and push me down on the table. He’s not even wearing gloves! The pressure of his grip on me increases. I flinch. It’s like he has violent talons; one wrong move, and he could shred me.
“Lie down and be quiet, or you will face consequences,” he says.
Be quiet?
Seething, I lift my head. We scrutinize each other, each of us daring the other to back down. I will “face consequences,” huh? Does he think I’m a damn child? I’ll show him the consequence of getting acid in his eyes and a stool lodged into the back of his skull!
