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A few moments pass and then Alex returns to the room wheeling in an archaic-looking instrument that makes my stomach bottom out.
“What the hell is that?” My voice has lost its edge.
He wheels the metal box to the end of the gurney and removes the top casing, then holds a pair of paddles aloft. “Emotion mapping is only phase one of our time together. Electroconvulsive therapy, otherwise known as electroshock, forms a cornerstone of the treatment.”
I huff a scathing breath at the absurdity. “This is insane. Don’t you think that I’ve researched psychopathy before? Listen to me, Alex. I know what I am. I’ve read all the literature, did all the web searches, and there is no cure.”
He starts to say more, and I stop him. “No. Hear me, Alex. Thereis no curefor psychopaths,” I stress. “What happened to your sister was a terrible tragedy. But I’m not that man. Hell, most psychopaths are not killers. You have to know this.”
He lays the paddles on top of the device. “I do know this. That’s not why we’re here. I’m not seeking vengeance. I understand you’re not violent. I’m not delusional. The truth of the matter is, if Grayson Sullivan would’ve been identified early on, possibly in his adolescence, and given a treatment…then my sister might still be alive.” He walks around the bed and touches my hand. This time I recoil away.
“So you’re a humanitarian,” I say, sarcasm thick in my tone. “Kidnapping unwilling victims to undergo unethical and depraved experiments for the greater good.”
He sinks his hands deep into his coat pockets. “It’s the limit of time. What I have to accomplish can’t wait for the rest of the world to approve.” He groans and takes a few steps away. “There has been no definitive research performed on psychopaths to prove or disprove theories,” he says. “On the eve of the industrial revolution, progress with the mind was stunted. Mass production took the forefront while humanitarians cited experiments on psych patients was cruel and inhuman.”
I obviously touched on a nerve with the humanitarian comment. He’s getting worked up, talking faster, pacing. “Alex—” I try, but he doesn’t hear me.
“The amygdala—” he points to his forehead “—facilitates emotional processing. And yet, very few studies have incorporated electrical stimulation of the amygdala to assess stimulation-elicited biological and emotional responses.” He laughs manically. “No one even knows the result. No one has tested it alongside emotional mapping to measure the outcome.”
While he’s lost in his own crazed rant, I bring the leather cuff to my mouth and try to loosen the strap. I will chew my way out of this insane asylum if I have to.
“Initially, the instruments for electroshock were all positively antediluvian in design, so of course that had to be ruled as inhumane. But the foundation was there. It just needed to be tweaked, tested…”
His attention finds me, and I halt all movement. Alex stalks closer to the side of the gurney where he peers down. He takes my wrist, checks the strap, then places my hand on the bed, his manner suddenly so cool it’s unnerving.
As he leans in close, he says, “Do you know how the process of decay works? It’s very insightful. From birth, our bodies are designed to start breaking down. From the very moment we enter this world, our brains begin to die. Every second, thirty-two million neurons expire. That’s one-point-nine million in a minute.”
“Alex…you’re scaring me.”
His smile is disarming. “Oh, I doubt that. But how amazing would it be if I could make you truly feel terror?”
He wrenches a strap out from underneath the gurney and latches it around my chest and arms, securing me to the bed.
Shit.“Look, I’m sorry I tasered you. But this is way too extreme for payback. We can find another way, Alex. I promise. I’ll help you….”
He ignores my plea. “This is for your protection,” he says, as he straps me to the gurney, “so you don’t inadvertently harm yourself.”
I struggle against the binding and am able to free one hand. I flail wildly, trying to connect with his face, as he backs away from my swing. With deft movements, Alex expertly blocks my attack and whips my arm around his in a firm hold that prevents me from moving.
My eyes widen as I lock gazes with him. “Son of a bitch,” I whisper. He knows martial arts, and he’s good. “What a liar you are,” I say, as I look at the bruise under his eye, the one he could have apparently prevented.
“Jujitsu. Trained since I was eleven.” As he latches the strap back into place, this time preventing me from escaping, he says, “You only saw what you wanted to see, Blakely. I didn’t have to try too hard to deceive you. Let that be a lesson.”
I lie helpless as I watch him systematically detach the tubes from my arms, then he lifts my gown to remove the catheter. My wrists are freed from the cuffs, all metal removed, and I know what is about to happen next. I can’t let it—but I’m powerless to stop it.
“I’ll get out of here,” I say through gritted teeth. “And when I do, I will hunt you down. I will end you. We can stop this right now—”
He flips a switch on the electroshock device and my ears hum with the charge. “You have a disease, Blakely. The necrotic matter in your mind needs to be removed so healthy cells can form. That’s what I do, who I am. I’m going to help you get healthy. I’m going to open up the dead and dormant pathways of your brain so you can feel.”
My gaze darts from his face to his finger poised on the switch. The loss of control over my situation is almost as painful as the dread encasing me as I wait for him to flip that button.
I swallow to moisten my dry throat. “You’re accusing me of being an unfeeling creature,” I say, tone low, solemn. “And yes, that’s true. I don’t feel in the same capacity the way you do. But I’m not the one with a torture device in his hands, Alex. I’ve never purposely hurt anyone. You’re making a conscious choice to harm me.”
Alex doesn’t wince. No show of emotion that my speech affects him. His determination to his project overpowers any rational thought.
“You claim I’m sick…but this, what you’re willing to do, that makes you the sick one, Alex.”
He inhales deeply and rolls his shoulders back, chin lifted high in defiance and resolution. With quick, unflinching movements, he shoves a plastic mouth guard into my mouth and straps the paddles to my temples.
