There’s a pause. Not even a flicker of a smile. God, she’s boring.
“Those aren’t really hobbies we can support here.”
“I like getting tattoos,” I offer, stretching my arms overhead and admiring the ink like it might start crawling. “Big ones. In places you probably wouldn’t approve of.”
“Probably not wise in your condition.”
“What condition?” I bark-laugh. “Contagious boredom? Terminal disinterest?”
Doctor Callaway blinks again. I can almost hear the mental Rolodex flipping through safe responses.
“Fine,” I huff, flopping back down. Even lying on my back feels wrong lately – too much pressure in the wrong places. “What can I do, then?”
She taps her pen against the clipboard. “What about…knitting?”
I stare.
“Crochet?” she tries. “Sewing. Weaving. Baskets. Rugs. You could always take up baking.”
I sit bolt upright. “Do I look like Delia fucking Smith to you?”
There’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth. A near-smile. Or a tic.
“What about…” she starts, then rattles off a few more mind-numbing options I immediately tune out.
I give her a death stare that could wilt steel.
She sighs. “We have a garden.”
That gets my attention. I perk up like a dog who’s just heard the treat drawer open.
“Wood chipper?”
Doctor Callaway hesitates. “…Yessssssss.”
“Perfect.” I grin slow and steady, like Christmas has come early and someone’s gift-wrapped me a corpse. It’s all teeth, a blade coming unsheathed.
“Perfect,” I repeat, and hop off the sofa like I haven’t spent the last hour sulking like a teenager on house arrest.
Doctor Callaway doesn’t stop me. Not that she could. She just watches, cautious, trying to pretend she’s in control of the situation when we both know the leash is imaginary. And fraying.
“You’re not allowed to operate the wood chipper unsupervised,” she calls after me, flipping to a new page on that clipboard of hers.
“Uh-huh.” I wave a hand without looking back. “Sure. Supervised murder’s still murder.”
“I said operate, not murder.”
“Semantics,” I sing, skipping down the corridor.
PREDICTABILITY IS DEATH
Pushin On - 2WEI
Nightshade
They don’t isolate me. They expose me.
I wake already being watched. I know this before I open my eyes – not instinct, not paranoia, but pattern recognition. The air feels arranged. The silence has shape. There is a difference between being alone and being the only variable in a system that is already running.
