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From the very beginning, people have divided good and evil. Two beings fighting for dominance. I don’t believe in divine beings. Life is simpler than that. We’re our own gods and devils. Capable of the vilest evil and of the holiest righteousness. We make our own rules, and create our own heavens and hells.
We choose them every day.
I douse the flame and close the door, shutting out the light. Leaving London to war with her demons in her personal hell.
25
Asylum
London
I once counseled a woman who was afraid to be alone. Her husband had left her for a younger woman, her daughter had fled home for college, and she found herself uneasy all the time. Unable to sleep, unable to cope. She suffered daily panic attacks.
The house is too quiet, too still, she said during one of our sessions. I hate the silence.
It was this patient in my early career that propelled me toward my passion and away from the bored housewives and midlife crises husbands. I remember how much I loathed her as I sat across from the hand-wringing woman. I couldn’t sympathize with her; I had never hated the silence. Nor had I ever had that anxious need to be surrounded by people.
Solitude is a test, I told her.
Solitude reveals who we are. Isolation is not loneliness; it’s the absence of noise and distraction. It forces you to acknowledge your worth. If you must surround yourself with people, you invite distractions from the one person deserving of your time: you.
Truthfully, I believed she was an empty, worthless woman who might as well be knitting doilies in front of daytime TV. She was wasting my valuable time with her pathetic existence, simply because she couldn’t bear to be alone with herself. She was selfish. She didn’t like who she was, so she was going to subject me to her monotony, too.
That was my last session as a general psychologist.
Past sessions tend to creep up when the silence gets too loud. When I’m given too much time to think. Like now, the quiet is damn near tangible, the blackness muting the world.
Solitude is a test.
I’ve always savored my alone time, never fearing being truly isolated—but maybe I was too harsh on my patient. Maybe this is the kind of alone she felt. The absolute deprivation of all senses.
I would compare it in part to death, if I hadn’t already experienced being buried alive.
I reach my hand outside the cage, toward a sliver of light bleeding through the blacked-out window. I have no concept of time, but it must be day. I’ve spent what feels like hours in this dark room, in the cage, huddled in a corner, trying to wait Grayson out. But time is relevant, right? For Grayson, maybe it’s only been minutes.
He’s testing me. This is a test that I can’t fail.
That blade of daylight is just out of reach, but I still reach for it, imagining its warmth touching my fingers. It’s a strange comfort.
I pull my hand back. Somewhere in this room is a camera. Grayson’s watching me the same way he watched his victims before. If it was anyone else, I’d offer them money. I have plenty of money. I might even offer my body. I have very little shame or emotional connection to physical touch and sex. A breathy laugh escapes. Except when it comes to Grayson, apparently. I admit that much; being with him…that fire so tempting…I crave that bad thing. I hunger for him.
It’s like a drug habit you can’t shake. I tug his shirt up and inhale his scent on the fabric. It’s like the craving between fixes. Your hands get shaky, skin clammy, awaiting the next taste. So, so bad for you—but absolutely satisfying when you get that first hit.
I drop the shirt. Grayson can’t be bought or bribed. He has his own cravings to feed, and I have to satisfy his deviant desires if I’m going to make it out of here alive. I have to find a way to give him what he wants without sacrificing too much.
The smell of the spaghetti gnaws at my stomach. I’ve tried to ignore it, even push it out of the cell. It could be laced with something. However, if taking the chance gets me one step closer out of this hellhole…
I bring the food closer and pick a pill off the plate. I break it in two and swallow half, then pocket the rest. I eat the noodles and tomato sauce with my hands instead of the fork, grinning as I’m reminded of when a woman doused me in pig’s blood and called me an animal. I lick the plate just like the caged animal I’ve become.
Then I slide the dish toward the cell door. It hits the corner bar with a disruptive clank. “Satisfied now?” I ask. Too famished to care, I inhaled every noodle, disregarding the fact that it’s probably drugged. Likely with a hallucinogen to enhance my experience. I laugh out loud at the thought. Grayson’s traps are never so simple as to only lock one of his victims in a cell. I’ve watched hours of torture, the elaborate traps always having a gruesome twist. I suspect I’ll start hallucinating soon, a frantic meltdown where this cage becomes my father’s basement.
Because that’s what he wants, right? Just like the grave, I’m to suffer as my father’s victims suffered. I’m to be punished in the Hollows Reaper’s place for his crimes.
Only as the seconds tick by, nothing happens. “I’m disappointed in you, Grayson. You missed a prime opportunity. This could’ve been your best trap yet.”
But the thought sticks. My home basement manifests from my mind, as if I gave life to the memory by simply thinking it into existence. It wiggles around in my head, slithering from the dark corners. The seams of the cell bend and warp. The shadows play tricks.
I squeeze my eyes closed against the darkness. Curse that meager ray of light. I wonder if Grayson allowed it in here on purpose to fuck with me.
