I grin. “You say I’m not a prisoner. Say I’m here voluntarily. All very above board. But you and I both know that’s bollocks.”
She half-turns. “You’re here because you’re a risk to yourself and others but because the asylum was worse. You agreed to this placement as an alternative to?—”
“Seytan,” I finish for her. “Right. But let’s be honest, shall we?” I step closer, slow and deliberate, watching the way her shoulders tense. “You need me here.”
Her brow furrows. “No one needs?—”
“You do,” I cut in, eyes locked on hers. “Because I’m the most interesting fucking thing to walk through your doors in years. You’re not here to rehabilitate me. You’re here to study me.”
She doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t have to. I can see it in the twitch of her jaw.
I tilt my head. “You’re not afraid of me, Doctor. Not really. You’re fascinated. You want to know how I tick. What makes the monster dance.”
“I think of you as a person, Kayla,” she says carefully. “Not a monster.”
“Bullshit,” I say lightly. “I’m your thesis with tits. An award in years to come.”
Her nostrils flare.
“And the thing is…” I take another step, now within touching distance. “You’re just as bored as I am. You pretend you’re above it – clinical detachment, professional distance, blah blah – but I see it. Youlikeour little chats. You like when I push you.”
“That’s enough?—”
“You get a thrill when I talk about killing. When I talk about blood. Don’t you?”
She opens her mouth but nothing comes out.
So I lean in close, just enough for her to smell the sharpness of my breath, and for me to scent the hint of sweat and soapand static electricity that always sparks when someone’s almost scared from her.
“You want me to keep talking,” I whisper. “You want to hear the details. How the body feels when it gives out. The sound it makes when it splits. You love it.”
She jerks back like I’ve slapped her. Good.
“I think you’re projecting,” she says stiffly.
“Perhaps.” I shrug. “Or maybe I’m the only honest one here.”
She’s rattled now. Tries to hide it, but I can feel the crack forming. I smile sweetly, all innocence and malice.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I chirp. “We can talk about needles. Or nightmares. Or maybe the dream I had last night about a bleeding tree with a human face.” I wink. “Whichever you like.”
Doctor Callaway doesn’t reply. Just walks away with her spine straight and her silence screaming.
And me? I sit back down by the chipper and laugh quietly to myself.
Because I’m winning.
And she knows it.
HUNGER MAKES MISTAKES
Everything - SMNM
Snow
Cold isn’t the worst part.
Cold is honest. It tells you what it is the moment it touches you. Hunger doesn’t. Hunger negotiates. Hunger lies. It starts as a suggestion – an empty space behind the ribs – and turns into a voice that speaks over everything else.
