She brightens slightly. “That’s good.”
“I regret not finishing the job.”
Her pen stops. The smallest pause, less than a heartbeat, but I see it. “You’re joking.”
I tilt my head. “Sure.”
Later, she’ll notehumour inappropriate but non-threatening.She’ll mark improvement. She’ll tell whoever she reports to that I’m stabilising. They’ll be pleased.
After lunch, I’m escorted to the greenhouse. It’s my reward – fresh air filtered through glass and dust. The plants are struggling; the soil’s wrong, the humidity inconsistent. I kneel in the dirt, gloved hands pretending care, and think about how easy it would be to hide a blade here. Every handful of earth could swallow a secret.
Doctor Callaway watches from the doorway, arms folded. “You have a real talent for nurturing things,” she says.
“Even weeds?”
“Especially weeds.”
She means it kindly, but I hear the subtext:something resilient, invasive, hard to kill.
“Have you heard of actirasty?” I eventually ask her, to shut her up.
“Hmm? No? What’s that?”
I study her closely. The way she tilts her head back and lets the sunlight dance on her face – the illusion of freedom. She’s just as much a prisoner here as I am. Sentenced to be my minder for the duration of…well, for the duration.
“It’s a kink.”
She shifts uneasily. It’s funny to me, that she’s growing more comfortable with my violence andsardonic sense of humouras she calls it, but every time I mention sex she clams up like a prude.
“It’s when you experience arousal from sunlight or radiant warmth. I think you have it. Should probably get checked for that, Doc,” I tease.
Again, she squirms. And I carry on regardless. “Me though? I have lots of kinks, but not actirasty. I prefer keraunophilia.”
“What’s that?” she asks wearily.
“Arousal from storms. Thunder and lightning really do it for me.”
She pauses a beat, looking stunned, then murmurs, “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“What? You thought necrophilia would be more my style?”
She shudders, obviously knowing exactly what that one is. I smile. It’s a grotesque thing, designed to make her feel even more uncomfortable than she already is.
“I quite like dacryphilia, too. Tears. Not mine, of course. I wonder if there’s a kink for screams turning you on? Something more…extreme than sadism, you know? It’s not the pain, it’s the reaction that gets my blood pumping.”
She doesn’t take the bait. She changes the topic. “You know, Kayla…” she begins, not even realising that she’s mirroring my language. “We’re very lucky to have this outdoor space. I had to fight hard to get it for you. I think fresh air, especially in your condition, is important.”
She does that a lot – casually mentions mycondition –to remind me that I’m human. That I’m carrying, that I’mcreatinghuman life. That I will one day be a mother. A role model. She’s always trying to remind me of my humanity, ignoring the elephant in the room. That someone, somewhere, for whatever reason, wants me kept alive for now. So that they can take my baby when it’s born. I’ll never be a mother. Don’t even want to be. Every time she mentions the pregnancy, I ignore her or change the subject.
There is no baby growing inside of me. Just a parasite. One which will take my place when it arrives. And it’s welcome to. This is no life. I’m counting down the days until death claims me, but it’s a long way to go.
Instead, I hum noncommittally. I’ll have some fun before they take me.
While she talks, I listen to footsteps beyond the greenhouse – guards changing shifts. The scrape of boots, the jingle of keys. Patterns again. One is heavier, slower. That one stays near my door at night. I haven’t seen his face clearly, but I can smell him when he passes: sweat, tobacco, something chemical. I file it away.
When we return inside, she leaves her badge on the table. I move it half an inch closer to my side. Her phone buzzes; she picks it up, turns away to answer. “Yes, Director,” she says, voice clipped. I can’t hear the other side, but the tone tells me everything. Reporting. Justifying. Promising compliance. When she hangs up, she looks paler.
“Everything alright?” I ask sweetly.
