Present Day: April 11, 1944
A boot lies on the ground in the center of the small examination room—worn, tattered sole, and fraying laces. My gaze lifts to the medical table, finding Stefan’s bare feet outstretched, blistered, red, and bruised. A beauty mark centered perfectly between the toes and heel of his right foot catches my eye. I’ve never seen it—never looked at the bottom of his feet. I might not know every single mark on his body, but I would trade my life for his without a second thought.
The white lights from the ceiling spill over Stefan’s restrained body—still convulsing, face red with swollen veins. But he’s still breathing. His heart still beats.
Andmy heart…continues to scream.
The longer I watch Stefan’s inflicted side effects unravel, the tighter my throat closes, the more bitter my stomach grows. How much more can he handle? How much more can I endure as a witness?
It doesn’t matter. I won’t leave. I won’t close my eyes or look away. I’d never turn my back on him.
I’m numb everywhere except for the pulsating imprints Stefan’s barbaric grip left on my forearms. Whatever the doctor injected—some form of stimulant, or adrenaline—is the only explanation for his wild, erratic thrashing. There’s no equipment to track his heart now, no way to see how fast it’s racing. A body can only take so much strain. During a seizure the heart already fights to keep up, and with a surge of stimulant added to his bloodstream, the outcome is far too easy to predict.
I bite my tongue, hard. If I outwardly react, I will have given this doctor, and thus, Weyman, exactly what he’s looking for—a confession that I love the man he’s tormenting.
I’ve learned their tricks and the ways of their mind games. The doctor would kill Stefan right in front of me. Just to break me.
He wants me to take notes.
That’s what I’m doing.
In detail, describing every effect, as the fibers of my heart fray like layers of an onion. Depleting me. My vision blurs along the lines on the paper.
Then I’m on the ground, staring at a boot. Stefan’s boot.
When did I get here?
My hands slip off my lap onto the cold cement floor, and a guard reaches down and grabs Stefan’s boot, tossing it into the rubbish bin before leaving.
“You’re as weak as the rest of them. Passing out and losing all power over yourself when a challenge arises,” the doctor scoffs with disgust. “Pull yourself together and stand up. What an embarrassment. That’s all you are.”
His words mean nothing, despite them mirroring the very sentiments I tell myself regularly.
I press my palms onto the cement beneath me, my wrists weaker than putty as I struggle to push myself up to my feet.
Where is he?
Stefan. He’s gone. No longer on the table in this small, filthy exam room. My eyes dart to every corner, looking for a hint. Something to tell me where he’s been taken.
But all that remains is his boot in the rubbish bin.
“Where is he?” The words gush out of my mouth with panic.I’m not supposed to know him. Or care.“The patient. Where?”
“You were the one taking notes,” the doctor says, scribbling something illegible down on yellow lined paper pinned to the wall.
I spin around, spotting the clipboard on the ground next to where I was slumped against the wall. I scrounge for it, nearly losing my balance, but snatch it into my hand before turning it right-side up. Every note I took is clear until the last line.
Patient A-70501 enters catatonic?—
The last letter continues into a line smudged off the side of the page. I don’t remember writing this. I must have blacked out.
Someone took him.
“Well?” the doctor says. “Hand over the notes.”
My hand is unsteady as I do as he says.
He flips the clipboard around and scans through the notes before shrugging. “I guess we won’t know where he went. What a shame,” he says with a chuckle.
