Bringing the meds along for the ride won’t be easy. I open the empty puzzle box and peel back the cardboard along the side, then seal the pills inside, dreading where I’ll have to stow the pills when the time comes.
Before I lose the orange glow of the overhead lights, I strip off my thermal and kneel before a handheld mirror propped on the table. I angle my back and study the fresh ink between my shoulder blades.
The outline was the hardest part, assuring the curves aligned, that every line is precise. I dig out the ink and shiv from the hollow compartment at the base of my cot. Not an easy feat, keeping the guards ignorant of contraband. What I use as a handle, a splinter I carved from a bench in the yard, is barely the length of my index finger. It holds the slender, sharp prongs I managed to score from the kitchen. Another perk from my gen pop connection.
I sharpen the prongs against the concrete, then use the points to shade in the black ink. Dip and puncture. Repeat. It’s a tedious process, but the results are worth the effort as I envision her hand—the ink that she tries so hard to conceal—as I fill in the negative space.
Every lock has akey.
After the tiresome repetition, the most vital element is layered within the shading. I can’t rely on memory, I can’t guess, and I can’t take any risks. Every element has to be planned, mapped, and executed carefully. Measurements. Access points. Pass codes—contingencies for any possible complication.
And above all, the most essential piece: London.
Without her, this will fail.
My hand trembles, anticipation fueling my adrenaline as I start on the final detail.
London claims I’m incapable of feeling—that I’m a psychopath devoid of empathy.
While I don’t disagree with her assessment, not all psychopaths are the same. What she and so many of her colleagues fail to acknowledge is the existence of the disempathetic type.
I’m the proof.
It’s referred to as a “constricted circle of empathy”—psychopaths who feel, but selectively.
Picture a dead tree. It’s stripped bare, its limbs severed. This tree has spent its entire existence decaying in darkness, slowly rotting. Then unexpectedly, the sun touches its bark, and a single, fragile stem sprouts, growing and reaching toward the only source of warmth it’s ever known.
One living limb on an otherwise dead tree.
London is that sunlight, and this new limb represents the only emotions I’m capable of feeling—those reserved solely for her.
Love is difficult for my kind, but not impossible.
With every break of my skin, every fresh stain inked into my flesh, I defy my nature to prove this to her. Like roads rarely traveled, the neural pathways for empathy and love have become overgrown and neglected in my brain.
If you don’t nurture a thing, it dies. I was born capable, like every human is, born with the potential to feel, to empathize, tolove—only I was prevented from cultivating these emotions, leaving those pathways weak and neglected.
Idle hands are the devil’s playground…and all that entails. A smile curves my lips.
Then there was her. Synapses sparked, lighting up a dormant, forgotten path. I’ve never felt a connection with anyone.
Until her.
And I covet this rare, precious thing, determined to nurture this little seed she planted in my dark soul.
My own design of love may be a twisted creature, but that creature is hungry and demands to be fed.
13
LAY BARE
LONDON
I’ve unpacked every skirt from my suitcase. A pile of black and gray slacks litter my bed as I try to unearth a wardrobe that won’t tempt me, or Grayson, to think about what happened during our session.
A mock laugh falls from my lips. I toss a pair of old slacks into the open luggage.Session. So that’s what I’m calling it. Allowing a patient—a very unwell, sick patient—to maul me in my therapy room.
I zip the case closed with a muttered curse.
