He smiles, and there’s a faint sadness underneath it. Even if—I mean, even when—I kill Dr. Ambrose, there’s a chance I could be hurt or end up in jail. Benji obviously doesn’t want either of those things to happen.
A twinge of guilt slithers in my chest. Benji is a good man with a big heart, and he treats me with respect. He hasn’t left me, and that should be enough for me.
But before I can accept his love, I need to love myself, and the only way I can do that is by killing Dr. Ambrose.
If I don’t do this, I won’t be able to live with myself.
“If I can’t change your mind,” he says quietly, “then we need to get through security now. Our appointment starts soon.”
“You won’t leave me after this, right?” I whisper, my voice quivering. I hate how pathetic I sound. I wiggle my shoulders and strengthen my tone. “You’re not going to ditch me and wimp out, right?”
“Absolutely not,” Benji says. “I’ll be here.”
He pulls a small tube from his jacket pocket. It’s as thin as a linguine noodle and as long as my finger, and it’s filled with acid. With the right aim, there’s just enough liquid to blind someone. I’ve been practicing with water on Benji.
I can do this.
I take the tube and double-check the lid is secure, then I stuff it in my sock. The container is awkward and stiff, but it’s small, so I’ll get used to it quickly. Benji has already tested getting it inside before; obviously, the metal detectors didn’t go off, and the sniffing dog wasn’t trained to identify acid.
I step out of the car, and Benji does the same. The cold air whips around us, a chill racing over my skin. Frost clings to the weeds in the cracked cement leading up to the entrance, and the few trees that surround the facility are sparse, their branches bare. Ice trickles into my bones and chest. I wrap my arms around myself and burrow into my hoodie.
I peer up at the main building and imagine Dr. Ambrose staring down at me with his dark, chilling eyes.
My insides ache. Until I finish this, I’ll always be empty. Cold. Longing for something I don’t understand.
I may end up dead or in a prison cell, but I have to do this.
I have to kill Dr. Ambrose.
Chapter 3
Dr. Ambrose
As soon as the entrance doors to the asylum close behind me, I embrace my resting scowl. Internally, I’m quite pleased with this brief interaction with Violet, though my exterior is always one of cruelty.
Though I am the director of the entire asylum, my office is stationed in my favorite ward: the Department of Sexual Deviancy. The asylum is immensely vast; even some staff members are unaware of how to navigate the grounds. In some ways, the Ambrose Asylum is much like a haunted house with hallways that lead to nowhere and doors on the higher floors that open to the outside, the perfect cage for a ghost trapped in the world of the living. And as director, it is my job to know every crevice of this facility and to use it to my advantage.
Passing through the hallways, everything appears orderly. Patients in hospital gowns wander the hallways, while nurses usher them toward their medicine cups. Deeper inside, a guard knocks his baton into the back of a patient’s head. I acknowledge the guard with a dip of my chin. He is an ex-patient of mine, one of the only graduates of my program. He once had an overwhelming affinity for corpses; I trained him to better hide his secrets so he may live an honest life. Later, I’m sure he’ll enjoy the fruits of his labor with the patient he just knocked unconscious.
There is so much horror within these walls that remains hidden from the outside world. And I am grateful for how I’ve moved through the ranks and the privacy my position grants me. In my earliest days here, I quickly realized the CEO was hiding secrets. I followed him and found ample evidence of his gambling and prostitution addiction, all funded from grants meant to be used in the asylum. I made a promise to keep those secrets if he gave me more power. Eventually, that meant giving me his entire position and ownership, as well as renaming the facility in my honor. He’s better off as a simple staff doctor now, returning to his roots of treating patients.
Once in my ward, I slip past the waiting area and into my office. Pine and oak permeate the air. Withered roses with dull orange centers droop in an empty vase on the desk. I cut them from the neglected garden outside of my house months ago; their transformation from living wonders to dried remains brings me joy. Even now, completely lifeless, they are beautiful, just like she will be.
Above my desk, the overhead light is still on; blood pumps to my groin, arousal already dancing under my skin.
My office door clicks closed, and I remove my lab coat, trousers, and boxer briefs. I stand on top of my desk chair and carefully remove the lightbulb from the fixture. Heat sizzles against my skin. The bulb is an older variety, likely to overheat and cause fires, the kind of object that should have been eradicated from the Ambrose Asylum a long time ago.
The asylum is older and in need of renovations. There is more than enough money, but I never see the need to allocate those funds when the money can be used for much more interesting things.
Once I remove the lightbulb, darkness falls over the office. I return to my chair, pull out my phone and click to another video, this time of Violet touching her clit as the cameraman, her boyfriend, grasps her neck. As he tightens his hold, blood begins to pool in her head and her skin reddens.
More, she grunts.
I press the lightbulb to my cock. My length spasms at the searing heat. The bitch turns purple, and her full lips fall open. Her beaded dark eyes fixate on her pathetic boyfriend. He releases his grip on her neck, and she inhales sharply, then hastily rubs the sensitive bundle of nerves between her legs.
I turn the lightbulb to let different areas of the hot glass burn my cock like the walls of an oven. On the underside of my length, there’s a rough patch of white scar tissue, a callus where I’ve grown accustomed to the burns. On the head, the freshest wound is now a faint green, probably due to the coffin session. The odor of raw, neglected chicken meat floats from my groin and mixes with the scent of disinfectant in the air. My favorite ritual is to burn the skin, and when the blisters start to heal, I pull off the scabs again and again until I’m numb to the sensation.
I’m excited to see exactly what Violet will enjoy. She’ll probably do anything.
