But she doesn’t move.
I used to dream of what it would be like if I had known my mother before she died. I used to cry myself to sleep because I knew there was nothing I could do to go back in time and stop her from taking those drugs. Then I used to fantasize about killing the man who murdered her.
But she’s here. He kept her.
Why did he keep her? Why does he still have her? Does he want her too?
Fire races through my blood vessels. I don’t know what I’ll do if I find out he’s been using her body this entire time when he could have been using me.
I jerk her shoulders. “Mom!” I shout. “Wake up!”
Her eyelids flutter; her pupils are dilated and flat, a baby doll closing its eyes as it’s laid down. She’s not present in her own body.
“What happened?” I ask, my voice cracking. I whip around, facing Daddy. His lips perk at the corners. Confusion cooks my blood. “What did you do to her?”
“I’ve been experimenting with different forms of psychosurgery for decades now, and I’ve recently begun working with a computer scientist to transform a woman’s awareness.” He lifts his chin. “My assistant—Oliver, you know—has been such a helpful influence in making my dream a reality.”
My brow furrows. I keep my hand on my mother’s shoulder, hoping the physical contact will ground me, keeping me inside of my own mind.
I’m Violet. Violet. Violet.
“Your dream?” I ask.
“Back when I was working with your mother, I was alone in my research. I had been experimenting with different patients; if the paperwork said they were dead, then what did it matter if I accidentally killed them while trying to create my perfect toy? No one goes through the trouble of following any patient too closely at the Ambrose Asylum, even more so once I took over. Our patients rarely leave anyway.”
Black dots spot my vision, and dread fills me with lead. If I hadn’t cared, if I had stayed complacent, if I had accepted my mother’s death from an overdose like a normal person—I wouldn’t know my father botched a psychosurgery that made my mom permanently unconscious, but I’d still have my sense of self. I’d still be my own person.
My core, my ribs, my fucking heart hurts. She’s alive. She’s here. And if she was never in that grave, then that means she’s been with Daddy, living in his house this entire time. He’s been taking care of her and the other women in this room.
I will finish this.
I will get him.
“Over the years,” he continues, “we’ve perfected a microchip capable of controlling different regions of the brain. You will have the latest version of the chip.” He taps his temple. “You see, this next version of the microchip fully controls the motor cortex and Broca’s area. The person will be able to move, but not without outside control. And speech?” He chuckles, and it’s like a funeral bell echoing across an empty town. “You will never have to worry about losing your voice again. It will simply be nonexistent.”
My breath is ragged in my chest. The white walls become a whirlwind sucking me down beneath the surface. What is he talking about? A microchip that controls different parts of the brain? He can’t be serious.
Can he?
My knuckles whiten. “Y-you’re going to make me like her? No. You can’t.”
As I step backward, a metal tray gleams in my periphery, next to my mother’s head. There’s a scalpel. A speculum. A circular, metal collar big enough to fit around a small neck. And there’s a small orange container with a white top and a torn label. A pill bottle. My pill bottle.
The poison.
I can’t force him to take the pills right now, but I can do something.
I lunge for the scalpel, accidentally cutting myself in the process. Adrenaline rushes through me, buzzing through my limbs. I adjust my hold on the bloodied blade.
“You won’t do that to me,” I warn.
He steps forward. I slice the blade through the air, but he clutches my wrist, stopping the motion instantly. My breathing stops. His nostrils flare as he tightens his grip on me. The blood pools in my hand, pressure building in my fingers as the edge of the blade cuts into my palm. Blood—my blood—drips on the floor.
“You don’t want to hurt me, sweet one,” he says.
The pain. It’s too much.
The scalpel clinks against the tile like coins in a jar.
