What if these are all delusions of grandeur, and I’ve been placed in isolation?
“Krimson,” I cry to myself in the corner. “Krimson, I’m so scared. I don’t know what’s real anymore. This place is so dark and cold. And I—I can’t remember anything.”
I ball my hands up and tap my knuckles against my forehead in frustration.
“Please, get Mom. You have to find me. Help me return home.”
I use my patient gown to wipe my tears as I rock back and forth in the corner of the room. And the screams and racket outside my door are proof I’ve lost my mind completely. It’s unlike the screeches I’m used to hearing through these thick walls. The noise is scattered down the Intricate Section. And the yelps are short-lived, as if someone cuts off their air supply before they’ve had a chance to sound an alarm. There are frantic footsteps and doors slamming so hard, I can feel the prolonged vibrations against my back.
Whispers.
Strangled breaths.
Gurgling.
A female voice screams, crying, begging. More just like that to follow after each voice fades. And one set of footsteps that is unhurried, unlike the rest that pass my door. My room is abruptly so soundless, I can tell the feet are bare. They frequently pause midstride, and within their hesitation, adrip drip dripfills the empty space.
The doors open.
44. The Original Puppeteer
Sapphire
One by one, all thirteenrooms unlatch.
The patients scatter.
There are a few who say thank you. There are a few who gasp and run.
I watch from my corner as their white gowns and uniforms flash across my doorway in a blur. And yet, I still can’t tell if this is real or not. A trap? Meridei’s way of punishing me? My hands shake uncontrollably as I wage back and forth with what I should do. Leave? Stay? Grab Niklaus and sneak out?
Krimson, I’m so fucked up. Is this real?
In my periphery, a shadow lurks in my doorway. One step, then another, and I can see the set of bare feet covered in splattered blood. The moment I see it, I am not afraid. My eyes trail up the tan feminine legs drizzled in dark blood to the white patient gown. Stringy, wet blonde hair hanging just under her ribs.
I raise my head to meet my mother’s scarlet bloodshot eyes.
It takes every last drop of restraint I have not to start sobbing. Not to crawl to her. Not to hug her waist and tell her who I am. Beg my mother to bring me home. For every time she’s picked me up when I’ve fallen out of a tree, fallen ill, or had my heartbroken—I’ve always been held close by my mother. I’ve been kissed on the head, told how loved I am, told how beautiful and strong I will always be.
And today, when I need her most, I can’t do that.
“Do you remember me?” Mom asks. Her voice is low and gentle in her approach, as if she’s trying not to frighten me.
My eyes fill with tears. I nod once.
Yes, Mama. I remember you.
“You’ve had some bad luck lately.” Mom glances around my room.
I trail my eyes over her bloody patient gown. The sight slams my heart away in a metal coffin because I know what this is. The portion of her story she never liked to talk about. This is the era of her life that—
“I’ve had a lot of bad luck too,” she says, holding out her hands that are dripping with Meridei’s blood. “I guess this is my way of getting even…for all of the bad luck I’ve received.”
She’s trying to soften her voice, keep her mannerisms non-threatening to me. Though, I can see why someone might fear looking upon her face right now. From the splattered blood soaking through her gown, staining her like a grotesque baptism, to the whites of her eyes spidered with veins and the enlarged pupils, a hollowed galaxy of horrors.
But I don’t care about any of these. She’s still Mom.
And I don’t feel that shocking sense of fear that most would.
