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"Hon." She forced herself to touch his cheek again. His control looked about ready to snap, and she had no idea what might set him off, or what he might do if he lost control. Remembering the scene between him and Philippe, she feared she might not have done the wisest thing. "It's all right. We can get help."
He winced as if she'd struck him, and pushed her hand away. Turning aside, he whispered, "You don't believe me."
"Of course I believe you. You think you're cursed."
"That's not what I meant."
"You've suffered a terrible number of tragedies, and I'm sure it feels like you're cursed sometimes. But it's not too late," she told him. "We can find some professional help for you."
"Damn it all!" He turned and slammed his fist onto the secretary's desk. "What will it take to convince you?"
"Desmond, calm down. You'll hurt yourself."
He spun around, a strange glint in his eyes. "Yes, maybe that will do it."
"What?" Her heart speeded up, and she swallowed with a too-dry mouth. "What are you thinking?"
"One aspect of my curse is that I'm immortal. If I demonstrate that, you'll have to believe me."
"Desmond, please. This has gone far enough." She had a vision of him blowing out his brains to prove his point.
"No it hasn't. Not until you believe me." He opened the center drawer of the secretary's desk, and took out a wicked looking letter opener. Gripping it in his right hand, he placed his left hand flat on the desk.
Rebecca ran towards him. "No! Desmond, stop! I believe you!"
"No you don't." He drove the letter opener through his hand, closing his eyes and hissing at the pain. Blood welled up around the wound, but not as much as there might have been. He hadn't punctured any of the larger veins.
"Desmond,
honey. We're in a hospital. They'll be able to treat that. Just, don't touch it. It'll be okay."
He blinked, and forced a weak smile. "Well. That hurt." He took a deep breath, and looked down at his hand. A glimmer of hope sparked within her, that the pain had snapped him out of his delusion.
He cradled the wounded hand in his good hand, bumping the tip of the letter opener, and she winced in sympathy at his sudden intake of breath. Following behind him as he walked to the sink, he surprised her by turning and holding out his hand.
"Do you agree that the letter opener goes all the way through?"
She looked away, her stomach turning at the sight of the bloodstained steel tip protruding from his perfect flesh.
"Yes, but it's not bleeding much. If we get you to the doctor, they'll be able to bandage it up for you. You might not even need stitches."
He laughed, a short bitter sound. "Dear heart, I won't even need the bandage. Watch."
Unable to stop herself, she watched in sick fascination as he slid the letter opener out of his hand, and rinsed them both under the water. Shaking the water off of his hand, he held it out for her inspection.
She took his hand, turning it over to look at the back. A thin pink line marked where new skin had formed, but it faded to pale alabaster even as she watched. In moments, no sign of his injury remained.
She grabbed his other hand, thinking she'd been mistaken about which hand he'd injured. Both hands were perfectly formed and whole.
"You were telling the truth," she whispered. Then a wave of fury swept through her. "You lied to me!"
"I didn't lie."
"You knowingly let me believe something that wasn't true, and didn't correct me. That's the same thing."
"But I had to."
"There's no excuse for lying." She turned to leave, only to have him catch her arm and pull her around to face him.
