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Can I trust him when he says that? Probably not.
“Is there a first aid kit in here? Something we can stem the bleeding with? I think this needs stitches. I could take you to the medical room.”
“No!”
“Okay, no to the medical room, not a problem. How about we move out into the studio? There’s a bit more room.”
“Fine,” he begrudgingly agrees.
Donnelly steps back to allow me to exit the small supply room, and follows closely behind me. I’m a little on edge, but I know that I can handle myself. I’m just thrown by this turn of events, that’s all.
I lead Donnelly back round to the main part of the studio, spying a first aid kit behind Danny’s desk and rushing over to it. Honestly, there’s so much blood loss, I don’t know how Ghost is still standing.
“Nice painting,” he says dryly.
“You don’t like to paint?”
“Can’t fucking stand art.”
I blink. What to say to that? Ghost loves art. I think back to when I was last alone in this studio with him. How he wanted me to call him Sir, or just use his last name. Was that Donnelly then? It can’t have been. He said—
Why am I even thinking about this, like somehow there's two or maybe even three people in one. Ghost is infuckingsane and if I start to seriously consider what I’m thinking, then I’m fucking mental too.
I clean the cut as best I can, rinsing with the small bottle of saline solution in the kit. Donnelly doesn’t even flinch when I wipe it over with antiseptic. I apply pressure with sterile gauze. When the gauze turns red with blood, I try not to freak out. Donnelly watches me closely, curiously, the entire time. Wrapping a second bandage around the first, I tie it off as tight as I can and then raise his arm up to try to slow the bleeding.
Donnelly doesn’t utter a word. I’m covered in his blood, holding his arm in the air, trying not to squirm under his intense scrutiny. I have no idea how long we sit like that until a quiet, soft voice says, “I’m sorry, Kayla.”
I hesitate. “…Ghost?”
He nods sadly, refusing to meet my gaze.
“We need to get you to the hospital wing. This needs stitches.”
“In a minute, please,” he begs. He sounds so dejected, so broken, I give in to him. I just want to pull him into my arms and hold him, but I don’t know how that would go down, so I don’t.
I try to catch his eye, but he’s looking right past me. Turning, I follow his gaze and take a look at the canvas he’s staring at. It’s a painting of a young man, his face twisted in agony. The colours are vibrant, yet somehow muted at the same time. I can’t help but be drawn to it.
“Did you paint that?”
He nods.
“What’s his story?” I ask, gesturing to the painting.
Ghost sighs heavily, looking down at his hands. “He’s me,” he says quietly. “Or at least, he was. Before Seytan got her hooks in me.”
I glance at him, suddenly feeling a sense of camaraderie. We’re all broken in our own ways, all seeking redemption.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
Ghost shakes his head. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault. And besides, I’m not that person anymore. None of us are.”
I nod in agreement. “That’s why we’re here, right? To start over, to find a new purpose.”
Ghost nods, a small, broken smile playing on his lips. “Yeah. To take control of our lives and not let Seytan or anyone else dictate our paths.”
“I wish,” I sigh. And I do. Removing the chip and getting out of here isn’t simple, and that’s just the start.
We sit in silence for a few moments, each lost in our own thoughts. But then Ghost turns to me, his pale blue-grey eyes intense.
