Just like that time—if I try to speak, I can’t breathe.
If I can’t breathe, I feeleverything.
And I hated it—feelingeverything. I preferred the numbness, the lack of emotions…the endless floating.
I think I’m getting there, to the floating stage where I don’t exist for a while.
Become part of the stars for a while.
But for now, I have to keep my feet on the ground.
Because there’s something I loathe more than feeling everything—being pitied.
Or being seen as a hopeless case. Dad already does, and I don’t want to add Jude and Kane to the list.
I was out here for a good time. You know, before Dad handed me to his favorite Dr. Fenwick so he could dissect my brain again.
Probe my mindagain.
Strap me to a bed, poke me with needles, extract my blood, and give me puzzles.
Will I get those again? The last time they studied me extensively, I was a kid, so maybe they’ll quit the LEGO-like nonsense?
Guess I have to wait and find out.
Though maybe that’s not a bad idea. I’d take LEGO over Dr. Fenwick’s dull personality any day.
I wonder if Dr. Duret will finally come to her senses and tell her boss, Fenwick, that I’mtotallyfine.
Okay, I’m not, but I’m not dangerous.
Fine, I am.
I’ve been sensing the disintegration of my mind slowly but surely over these last couple of days. The sounds are starting to drown out my thoughts; I can barely hear myself.
This morning, I stared in the mirror, and I don’t know who the fuck stared back at me. He had hollow eyes and snot running from his nose as silent tears streamed down his face.
“You never helped me,” he whispered, and I had to look away before I drove my head straight into him.
He should’ve died. Why the hell is he still alive?
Anyway, my brain has been in a bit of a state for some time, but it’s spiked since the night I hurt Marcus and he pretended nothing happened.
My mind rippled, spanned the fuck out, and finally broke.
Then it was shattered into pieces last night after Dad apologized for his cutthroat intentions.
So what did I do? Killing some desolate souls or slicing some throats normally would’ve been my go-to solutions. Or maybe provoking Dad so he’d send Lenin to beat me the hell up.
But nah, none of those would’ve helped in this state of complete desperation.
Instead, I’ve done something uncharacteristic.
I spent the entire night writing a letter.
Yes.Iwaswriting a letter. Blasphemous under any form of circumstances, and no, Dr. Duret won’t get the credit, because she’s a fucking liar.
It wasn’t helpful or cathartic like she preached. If anything, I found myself hitting the back of my head on the wall so hard, I was sure I’d bleed out.
