I can’t let him live.
I can’t?—
“Your boyfriend will assist you in gathering your essentials for a longer stay at the asylum,” he says.
My boyfriend?
Right. He means Benji.
My mouth goes dry; my throat aches. Why is it disappointing I’ll be leaving Dr. Ambrose, even for a short time?
I’m disappointed because leaving him means I haven’t killed him yet. It’s not about him?—
“You trust me to leave this place?” I ask, my tone weak. I grimace. Why do I sound so pathetic?
A grin pulls the corners of his lips. “You’ll be back.”
Goosebumps erupt over my skin, a mix of disgust and desire radiating from my core and pushing to my outer flesh. Maybe this is a test to see how far I’ll go to resist him.
But what if I don’t want to leave?
I shake my head. This is ridiculous. I’m not here because of Dr. Ambrose. I’m here because I’m supposed to kill him.
But what if he wanted me all along? What if?—
I grit my teeth and suppress a grunt. Dr. Ambrose purses his lips, his eyes fixed on me. My stomach clenches. Damn it, I like that he notices everything about me, but I need to say enough to get out of this bathtub without him realizing the shower head is behind my back.
“A longer stay? Wh-what will I need?” I say. I need to say something. Anything. “Clothes? Books?”
“Essentials, my dear. You won’t need books or clothes while we reprogram you. If you were previously on medications, you may collect those. I always support the prescriptions of my fellow doctors.”
His grin widens, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Does this mean he wants to take care of me now? I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants my prescriptions in order to control my physical health. He probably gets off on the idea of controlling someone in that way, and that’s terrifying.
Because that means he desires me.
And I desire him too.
What is wrong with me?
There’s nothing wrong with me, I tell myself. I’m just being manipulated by a psychopathic, fake doctor who wants to do terrible things to me. And I can use this situation to my advantage. I don’t take any medications, but if the acid and blunt force trauma don’t work, I have a small pocketknife I’ve been sharpening. And if that doesn’t work, I have pills filled with rat poison. I can tell him it’s part of my medication, a pill I only take when symptoms occur, and I can find a way to feed it to him.
If I kill Dr. Ambrose, then my thoughts—my desires for him—won’t matter. He deserves to die.
Doesn’t he?
“Think of this as a chance to say a proper goodbye to your boyfriend,” Dr. Ambrose murmurs.
My boyfriend?
How do I keep forgetting Benji? And what exactly does he mean by a proper goodbye?
I lean back. The shower head digs into my spine. This isn’t a goodbye for Benji or me. This is goodbye for Dr. Ambrose.
My voice trembles: “H-how long will I be staying here?”
“Indefinitely.”
My heart rate drops lower and lower, until I’m so weak, I’m not sure I’ll be able to pick myself up again. The metal shower head rubs against my back, irritating the skin; I don’t adjust myself. It reminds me of my goal.
