Roger looked back at him, a line of impatience written across his forehead.
“Fine,” Brooks sighed and made a show of looking over the ink-stained card. What he didn’t expect was to get lost in its image, for within it, he did see the devil.
He saw Lucifer with horns atop his head. He saw Grimm with his scythe hung proudly over his shoulder. Surtr holding his flaming sword. Donn of the Gaels and his black horse of shadows.
But more than any, he saw chaos.
Darkness spilled over the page, black as the void and even more ominous. Within its depths, he saw a devil and a savior. A creator and a sword of destruction. Life and death. A chill ran down as spine as the dark presence within stirred.
“Brooks?” Roger’s voice cut through the spiral and brought Brooks’ attention back to the drab room.
“I think I’m done for the day, Roger,” he swallowed. “And I fucking mean it.”
Roger took a moment to write more notes and each scratch of lead against the paper made Brooks want to crawl out of his skin.
“I would like to see you again to discuss this reaction further. I can see that you’re still experiencing some drowsiness and irritation from your injection, so I’ll call an orderly to escort you to breakfast.”
Roger didn’t look up from the pad as he continued scribbling bullshit down— a clear dismissal.
“Fantastic, doc,” the sarcasm rolled off effortlessly, the last syllable a loud pop that echoed through the taught space.
“Being an asshole will do you no favors. Seeing the devil in an ink stain, however? That’s the nail in your coffin.You’re so screwed,“ his Siren whispered, her voice quiet like she had been a silent observer.
He tapped impatient fingers against his thigh as a no-face employee grasped the handles of the wheelchair and pulled him from the room.
“In the ass, it would appear,” he huffed under his breath.
Wallsblurredontheirway to the mess hall, different shades of musty brown furniture blending with door frames and worn tiles. It was no wonder time in the asylum felt like swimming through a pool of molasses— everything was unremarkable.
He watched the other residents in the cafeteria, both envious and disgusted by how content they were. Some ate in silence while others talked to residents seated around their tables. There were those whose silent stare was focused a million miles away and others whose paranoia forced them to stay alert.
“Brooks.”
A tray dropped to the table with a loud thump, startling him from his musings. A small woman sat clumsily beside him, her leg bumping his elbow as it swung over the bench and knocked the spoon from his hand. Brown mush splattered across the table and into his lap.
Brooks closed his eyes and sighed, battling for patience.
He deserved an Olympic medal for not cursing.
“Rue,” he returned with gritted teeth.
“Whoops,” she chuckled.
They sat shoulder to shoulder and Brooks bristled at the contact.
Rue was a patient at St. Dymphna’s long before Brooks ever showed up. He didn’t know much about her other than her high-pitched voice made his skin crawl and she was way too happy to be living in an asylum. Her hair was an unnatural shade of red– so deep in color it matched the ripest of berries and looked almost pink in the sunlight.
Brooks met Rue in the greenhouse right after he woke from one of his insulin-induced comas. He was taken to pick flowers after electroshock therapy and found her pruning the spring flowers. He knew he was in trouble the instant their eyes met.
Her cheeks flushed, flowers forgotten as she turned to watch him pass. There were few clear memories from those first few days after waking, but he would never forget her look in the greenhouse.
Obsession.
“So,” she started. “How are you? How’s life? What have you been up to? Anything new?”
“Impressive,” he spoke over her, attempting to patch the dam before more words could burst from it. “You found four ways to ask the same question and didn’t even need to breathe in between.”
Rue dug into the food like she was ravenous, the only sign of emotion at his words a small quirk of her brow.
