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I disagree but all I say is, “Okay.”
Because I don’t want to fight with him. Not right now.
“I made a judgment call,” he insists.
Maybe he did. But as I said, I don’t want to fight with him. I’m feeling mellow and oddly peaceful right now.
Nodding, I agree with him again, “All right.”
His chest heaves like he’s angry. “Stop looking at me like that,” he rumbles.
I’ve never heard a sound like that coming out of his mouth. It drips with both authority and intimacy. So much intimacy that it’s this thick, potent thing like the smell of the rain in the air.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m some kind of a hero.”
“But isn’t that a… good thing?” I ask, confused.
“No. Because I’m not a hero.” He leans closer. “Using sedatives is the last resort and very rare. It only happens in extenuating circumstances. And it’s for both the patients’ safety and also for the safety of the personnel who’s handling them. I knew I had her, so as I said, I made a judgment call.”
In the wake of his speech, a fat drop of water plops on my cheek. Another falls on my head. I look up and see the rain has arrived.
There are squeals and shrieks and suddenly, I hear footsteps all over the place. Everyone’s trying to get inside before the rain gets heavier.
And I remember we’re not alone. I don’t know why I thought we were.
We’re never alone in this place. Throughout the day, we get checked on in twenty-minute intervals. Some patients get charted even when they are with a provider because they are considered dangerous. Thank God they are not doing that with me anymore. They don’t leave us alone even at nights. On our floor, they do hourly checks through the little windows on our doors. Up on The Batcave, those nightly checks are even more frequent.
So yeah, never alone.
“Do you understand what I just said?” Dr. Blackwood asks, and I look away from the commotion.
Do I understand?
“Yeah.”
He nods, satisfied. “Good.” Looking up at the sky, he says, “Now get back inside.”
I would. If I wasn’t staring at the way his throat moves when he talks. And how a raindrop is sliding its way down the side of his neck and disappearing under the collar of his shirt.
Focusing back on me, he says, “Willow.”
I shake my head, getting myself out of my stupor. “Right. Yeah. Okay.”
I start climbing the steps, but I stop and turn around to find him watching me go.
“Have a good night, Dr. Blackwood.” I give him a teeny tiny smile.
Covered in raindrops, he slants me a blank look before striding down the pathway.
As the techs herd us inside and close the front door, I realize I do understand. I understand that he doesn’t like to be called a hero. I understand that Dr. Simon Blackwood might be a unicorn of a psychiatrist.
Because not only he makes me want to talk to him and not hate him, but I might even… like him, just a little bit.
***
I have an ache.
It’s as old as time. Older than that, maybe.
I’m bruised. A bruise that’s destined to remain unhealed forever and ever. Red and swollen and pulsating.
I’m in my bed. The hourly check has just got done. Rain’s battering against the window. I see the droplets sluicing down. Thick, wet droplets, and I feel an answering pulse.
Between my legs.
Under my hot blanket, my hand creeps down and presses on my pelvis. I massage it and as much as my fingers are soothing the pain, they are stroking it also. Like when you stroke the soft fur of a wild animal. Sometimes you awaken it, rather than put it to sleep.
I thought they killed it, the meds and doctors. My own brain. I thought they murdered the one thing that makes me normal: my lust.
But no.
It’s there. And it’s awake tonight. And hungry.
My fingers go under my t-shirt and I drag my blunt, unsatisfying nails across my bare skin in franticness.
I’ve been kissed before. I’ve made out, have felt and given inconsequential touches. But the only person who’s touched my core is me.
And right now, it’s the center of the wound. The eye of my hurricane.
But that’s not all. This isn’t a random burst of desire. This is designed.
For him. The ice king.
I suck on my finger, getting it wet with my tongue, and slide it inside my pajama bottoms and panties. I find my wet curls and seeping core.
With my other hand, I cup my boobs. They are C cups, plump and hot, my strawberry pink nipples puckered. Using my arms, I push them together, my tits, and rub both my nipples with the fingers of that one hand.
Simultaneously, I rub my clit and nearly come off my bed. I moan; I can’t help it. It’s not loud but it’s a sound I haven’t made in a long time. So long.
