Perversions. I hate that word. It’s just like “freak.” Both words imply there is a true normal. A “good” path everyone stays on when the weirdos like me stray.
But there is no “normal,” and I’m not a “freak.”
“What’s the doctor like again?” I ask absently.
“He’s big. Not scary looking or anything. Kind of…” Benji’s gaze drifts off, finding its way to the building’s exterior. He flinches. “I don’t know. It’s like he can get under your skin. A parasite you don’t know is there. The kind that eats your insides.”
I shiver right as a black sedan drives past. It parks near a tree. A chill settles over my heart.
Somehow, I know it’s the doctor.
The driver’s door opens, and a man with broad shoulders and a thin, toned frame stands up. A long, gray ponytail is at the base of his neck, and his lab coat is smudged with dirt.
Dr. Ambrose.
I lurch back as my brows furrow. “Why is he covered in dirt? Did he just come from his part-time greenhouse job or something?”
Benji shrugs. “I don’t think he’s that kind of person, but who knows. The guy is weird.”
As the doctor heads toward the asylum, he glances at our car. We lock eyes.
He winks.
My throat contracts. Bile rises in my esophagus.
He disappears into the building.
“He’s not a gardener.” I shrink down in my seat. “He would probably rather torture plants to death.”
Or torture me.
“Probably,” Benji says.
Sourness coats the back of my tongue. I swallow it, but it’s like a wad of blood-soaked gauze is lodged under my uvula. I hate that I keep thinking about being tormented by Dr. Ambrose like he’s some angry, all-powerful god, when in reality, he’s just an abusive man in a position of power.
A man who deserves to die.
I haven’t told Benji this, but there’s a strong possibility Dr. Ambrose is my biological father. I’ve read my mother’s stolen records; she became pregnant after she began treatment at the Ambrose Asylum, so my father is probably here or was here. A patient. A guard. A nurse. A doctor. To be honest, I’ll take any father, as long as it’s not Dr. Ambrose.
But if he is my father, then he didn’t just kill my mother; he also abandoned me. Not because he died. Not because of any righteous reason. But because he wanted to.
And that’s another reason to kill him.
I don’t have any confirmation about my blood parentage. It’s easy for Benji to steal a file; it’s a little more difficult to get a blood sample.
Then again, Benji said Dr. Ambrose demanded I go to the town’s clinic to get my blood drawn. Maybe Dr. Ambrose was testing our biological relations for himself.
I sigh. I don’t want to know if Dr. Ambrose is my father. He’s my enemy. Nothing more.
“Did the doctor mention the results of my blood tests?” I ask Benji.
“He said he’d notify me if something came up. No news is good news, right?” He scratches his head. “It probably would have been better if he did find something.”
Then I wouldn’t have to be here.
I soften my brows, and Benji grabs my hand. Though he’s been supportive of me getting closure, he hates the asylum.
And I’m choosing to be here.
