I had Angel. He said he loved me. That’s not the kind of thing he takes lightly. If he said it, he meant it, even if he wasn’t selfish about me. He never got jealous over my love for Saint, even sent me to Heath when he was ready to forgive me. And I didn’t get to say I loved him back.
I had Heath, who forgave me. Who scared me but turned me on so much when he chased me, when he lost control and was wild and chaotic. But even then, he respected my limits, stopped himself from taking what he wanted because it wasn’t what I wanted. He waited for me to come to him when I was ready.
I even had Saint, in a way. I was working up to it, anyway. And though he broke my heart, I can’t help but love him. I will always love him, and even if he never says it, I know he loves me too. That’s why he’s so angry, why he pushes me away. Because he hates that he loves me too. That’s what Father Salvatore said. I’m sure I could have worked my way back into his heart with the priest’s help.
And I had him, the father, the priest, the man who showed me it was okay to love all these men, that it wasn’t a sin to have a body with needs and to let someone fulfill those needs. My throat squeezes into a knot at the thought of all our moments together—in the confessional where I opened my heartand spilled my deepest shames, in the church where he tasted me from his lips when I wet them with my desire for him.
I know they won’t give up on me. That they’re looking for me now, as desperate to find me as I am to get back to them. So I have to stay strong, to stay sane, to trust myself the way I trust them, so that when we find each other again, our love will be waiting.
I don’t think the doctor is going to speak to me again, but after a few minutes, the intercom crackles to life again.
“Guards are going to come and take the body out,” he says. “Are you going to attack them?”
“I’m not some violent psychopath,” I say. “I want a game, not to attack regular guys.”
“That wasn’t a regular guy,” Dr. Augustine says. “That’s a billionaire.”
“Huh,” I say, looking at the very unimpressive man on the floor. “I’ve never knocked out a billionaire before.”
“I’ll send someone to escort you to my office,” Dr. Augustine says. “I have something to show you. I think you’ll be quite impressed.”
I wait while the guards remove Ron, and then another brings me to see the doctor. I’m pleased with the increased security—last time, he had a nurse escort me. I must have earned some respect if he thinks I warrant two big men as guards. Still, I’m not overly confident. For all I know, they’re marching me to my death. After all, Dr. Augustine wouldn’t speak so frankly about what he does here if he ever meant for me to leave.
Maybe that’s how it works. There are the people who come thinking it’s just an asylum, whose parents pay for their stays and who get to go home when they’re done with their stints in the hospital, like the boy that they said uses the place like a vacation. And then there are the ones who are brought against their will, the ones who never leave.
The fact that Eternity was one of those, and that she’s not here now, fills me with a sickening anguish. There’s only one conclusion I can draw from that. But if I can’t find her here, at least I can find answers. For her as much as for myself and my boys, I plan on getting out of here alive. I don’t care if I have to swim, or stow away on whatever boat comes to bring supplies to the island, I’m getting out of this place. And when I do, Dr. Augustine is going to be sorry he spoke so candidly, that he let his ego blind him to the possibility that I could slip through his fingers and bring his own words back to haunt him.
As we cross the small stretch between the asylum and the quaint white cottage where Dr. Augustine stays, the sun is setting in the west, beyond the island and across a stretch of restless ocean. I can just see one tiny light twinkling on the faraway shore, nothing more than a spark on the uneven black line of the horizon. I want to linger a moment despite the damp chill in the salt air, to watch the sky turn color and the darkness descend. Instead, I’m ushered up the steps and into the cottage, which looks strangely normal inside and reminds me in a disconcerting way of Father Salvatore’s rectory.
With a twist of pain, I remember Manson sitting on the floor of Annabel Lee’s room, telling me I had a type. Maybe he’s right. Since the moment I got here, I’ve entangled myself with this doctor, trying to engage him in a game of chess, trying to earn his respect and his admiration. As much as I want to destroy him, some sick part of me also craves his approval, his acknowledgement that I’m special. There must be a reason I always come back to the father figure, that I’m drawn to the most important man in any room. Maybe I’ll always be looking for the validation I never got from the fathers in my own life. But this time, I recognize it, and I won’t let it stop me from putting him in the ground.
“Come in,” he calls, and I enter alone, leaving the guards on the front porch.
Dr. Augustine is in the small kitchen, his back to me. I marvel at how trusting he is, how sure of himself. I could grab a knife and sink it into his back. I’d have to be quick, and a little bit lucky, but I might be able to do it.
He turns before I can, smiling at me from behind his glasses. He’s wearing chinos and a sweater vest over his shirt, and he looks harmless, even kind, just an aging doctor with a gentle smile. I can almost believe he’s beneficent.
“Have a look at this,” he says, opening a slim laptop on the table. “I think you’ll appreciate the work that went into your vision.”
“I was thinking,” I say. “Maybe the swimming pool would be a good venue. People can watch from the floor above. You’d just have to set up chairs on the track.”
“I like that idea,” he says. “Suitably grimy for such a man, but not too unsanitary, and not as savage as the woods.”
“Exactly,” I say, relieved that he’s so receptive to the idea.
“We’ve just put it up, and we’ve already gotten three inquiries,” he says, opening a page. The first thing I see is the price tag—fifty thousand dollars.
“That’s a lot of money,” I say, scanning further down, feeling sick at the sight of the photos he posted of me, ones they insisted on taking after they shaved me the first day.
“Like I said, this is a civilized place,” Dr. Augustine says. “We don’t invite savages. And that’s simply to play. We have to guarantee your safety, since this is such a rough fantasy you’d like to play out. So there’s a steeper penalty for severe damages.”
I gulp, my pulse thrumming at the danger. My knuckles still throb from the blow I dealt the billionaire, but the thought of releasing all my fear and rage in a real fight has adrenaline coursing through me. At the same time, I’ve never faced off witha man like this, a man who wants to hunt and hurt me. Even on campus, when I fought the Sinners, I always had a chance to turn and flee, to escape. In the swimming pool, there will be no escape. I won’t be the strongest person in the fight. I’ll have to be smarter, fight better, than I’ve ever fought in my life.
“Obviously, we have to offer him an incentive in return for such a hefty fee,” Dr. Augustine says, scrolling down the page. My head swims when I read the rest of the post, the words blurring together. It’s an ad for an experience, not a person, but it’s still surreal seeing myself basically for sale online.
Phrases blur past my eyes—fantasy becomes reality; no weapons, bare hands only; no condoms required, breed her bareback; come and get the girl of your dreams and be her nightmare; no scripts, real fear, real risk, real victory; trap, overpower, subdue and conquer your virgin bride; anything goes: biting, hitting, punching, beating, spitting, hair pulling, scratching, gouging, choking, unconscious or conscious, she will be your unwilling conquest for the night.
I feel sick when I finish reading, but Dr. Augustine smiles, looking quite proud of himself.
