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And, oh, she’s so painfully beautiful in her torment, in her confliction, the denial that festers her once-impenetrable resolve. I’ve seen what’s under that hard layer, and it’s vulnerable and tender and starved.
And it’s mine.
Using my thumb to smudge the shadowed contour along her jawline, I blow away the lead debris, mindful not to impact her lips. Captured in perfect lighting under an illuminated marquee sign, her lips are flawless. Her features divine.
A single moment stolen.
I give myself credit, I’ve been patient. I watched her the other night as she waited to cross the street. The whole city abuzz around her as she stood motionless. A lost soul amid a sea of strangers all bustling with energy. And Blakely, arms crossed around her trim waist, trying to disappear in the stream.
I’ve been watching for a while, monitoring her progress, cataloging her setbacks, waiting on the sidelines to intervene. Her life is very different now. Blakely no longer lurks in the shadows targeting victims for other people’s revenge. Like standing beneath that brilliant sign, she’s been thrust into the light, forced to interact with the world.
Since I returned to the city, I’ve been studying her cautiously, warily, the way I should have done before. Instead, I jumped in on impulse, too excited by the prospect she held. The lure to be pulled in by her gravity too compelling.
No more rash decisions. I need verifiable proof the procedure worked, not my biased assertion of what I witnessed during our last moments together. That, and the fact when I was faced with my demons, I made the reprehensible decision to destroy my lab and all my work.
It takes time to rebuild. And to rebuild better. If I can prove the results, then there is no guilt, no reason to feel anything other than pride at my accomplishment.
So I destroyed the research lab at the cabin, all the evidence, thereby allowing Blakely to believe I was destroyed also.
How else would she have been able to return to her life?
Once I have concrete, factual findings, I will atone for my sins with her, but I have no plans of spending the remainder of my life in prison. And I won’t let Blakely, either.
I admit, the second I realized the treatment was a success, the scientist in me was tempted to go directly to her. Eager to run tests and compare data, to study and map her neural pathways like Theseus exploring the labyrinth.
But really, the truth is far more sinister.
I’m not the hero slaying a disease.
I’m the monster in the center of the maze.
The selfish, needy man in me just wants her. To see the look in her eyes when I appear in her life. Alive. With the realization that I’ve come back for her.
A fiery pang resonates in my chest as I play out that delightful reunion in my head, intoned with a thick layer of sarcasm. I’m a pathetic heathen, disgusted with the fear that holds me at bay from her. The crushing, debilitating fear of rejection that, when our moment comes, Blakely will never accept us.
Of course, I did abduct her. Torture her. Conduct mind-altering experiments on her.
But oh, Blakely, if you’d only understand what greatness we could achieve together.
She was never meant for a mediocre life. We can be so much more. A breakthrough of this significance… I haven’t even stopped long enough to imagine all the possibilities.
First, however, we have to contend with her guilt. It’s holding her back. I aimed to make her feel that guilt, now I want to abate it. Guilt over scum like Ericson is wasted effort. The desire to go to her thrums through me with vicious longing but, as Blakely is the first successful test subject, I need to take my time collecting data, observing her, analyzing every detail. I can’t rush this process. Not this time.
I was impulsive and emotional when I determined the experiment a failure. I terminated the whole project in one extreme, explosive production. That’s what our uncontrollable emotions will do if not contained. Make us set fire to our entire life in one moment of uncertainty.
As Blakely clearly demonstrated by sticking a blade into a man.
If I had any doubt before about her transformation, that one act removed it.
The purpose of my project was so brilliant in its simplicity. Alter the brain chemistry, alter the individual. Change the world.
A new world where psychopaths suffer empathy. Where they grieve should they make others grieve. A just punishment for those who don’t fear the world’s justice system—an imperfect system designed to set those offenders free.
The page crumples in my fisted hand. I loosen my strained shoulders and flex my wounded hand, feeling the tightness of the ruined flesh beneath the bandage, then smooth out the creases in the page over Blakely’s face.
Pain is real. It grounds me in the present.
Since the conception of my project, I’ve been keeping track of time but ultimately losing touch with the world. The importance of the here and now. All the moments that make this intolerable life worth living.
