We’re both freaks, Dr. Ambrose had said, as if my desires, my desperation, my needs were acceptable. Familiar. A genuine part of who I am. Who we are.
A car engine echoes across the empty streets. Headlights flicker as the vehicle turns onto the road. A brown cargo van with gold-painted ridges comes into view. Bars cage the small windows on the side, and bright red letters decorate the exterior: The Ambrose Asylum.
Dr. Ambrose is here to collect me.
Chapter 18
Violet
Ice freezes my chest and every muscle clenches as the van parks outside of the cemetery. The engine stops. The headlights switch off.
I stand next to my mother’s grave.
Don’t breathe or step. Run. Run!
The van doors open. The assistant steps out and pushes up his glasses.
Then Dr. Ambrose emerges.
A pulse pounds in my ears. My toes curl. I hold my breath.
The doctor steps around the van and into the streetlight. We’re a few meters away from each other, and yet the burns flecked across his face are visible, and the deep crater on his cheek flames red.
He offers his hand to me. “Are you ready to come home, love?”
Home?
Love?
Acid curdles in my throat. Flashes of white spot my vision. I have the knife and the poison. This is what I want.
But what if the “right” reasons aren’t enough for me to do this anymore?
What if I’m never free of Dr. Ambrose?
I take a step back. “No,” I whisper.
Dr. Ambrose opens the gate, the metal hinge creaking.
“I was afraid of this,” he says. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out metal handcuffs. “Benji told me about your argument.”
Benji talked to Dr. Ambrose already? Even after he told me we had to run away? Is Dr. Ambrose lying about that?
Why would he lie?
“I-I don’t believe you,” I stammer.
“You may have your doubts, but we both know where you belong,” he murmurs.
Each word etches into my skin. As my pupils narrow in on him, I realize his features are carved into me. We have the same dark eyes. The same high cheekbones. My skin is firm where his is loose, but in thirty to forty years, I will probably look just like him.
The world fades: there is no assistant, no cemetery, no empty coffin, no gate keeping us trapped.
It’s only Dr. Ambrose and me.
“I need more time.” I step back and stumble over a headstone. I catch myself and keep walking backward, careful to never turn my back on him, to always keep my eyes on the predator. “I need time.”
“You need more than time, sweet one,” he says. “You need me.”
