Patient A-3

Chapter 7: Too Late

Nausea churns within me, forcing me to grab at my stomach. His words hit me hard- for years, these men languished beneath me, bound and subjected to torment. Three people died down here, and these men very well could have been next if it wasn't for my father's death.

"Was my mother involved too?" I question wearily.

Cierien tilts his head, taking in my apparent discomfort, "She never came down very often, but when she did she sure as hell made it hurt."

Even though I anticipated that response, the sickness in my stomach continues to grow. Out of both of my parents, I had always regarded my mother as the more ruthless one. Her hand was the one perpetually raised in aggression, while my father often settled into the role of a passive spectator. Mom's abuse was never limited to just words; she consistently concluded her tirades with physical blows. It's hardly shocking that she had knowledge of this place, and even less surprising that she had participated in the torment inflicted here.

"Mrs. Adair was decidedly harsher, wasn't she?" Wrath begins, aiming his question at Cierien. "If the Doctor's motivations stemmed from curiosity, hers were driven by an insatiable desire to maximize suffering."

A chuckle escapes him, and his gaze lifts as he delves into a recollection. "Remember that incident with the nail gun and the hot glue?" he asks Cierien.

Cierien's expression sours, and he responds with a tinge of embarrassment, "How could I ever forget? I spent at least a week hacking up dried glue and nails."

I lean back, following their conversation as they recall past experiences involving my mother. Wrath's face shows a hint of amusement as he laughs at Cierien's account. A lump forms in my throat, and a wave of unease washes over me as I attempt to picture how the glue and nails got there in the first place.

Tears well up in my eyes as I speak, my voice low and trembling, "I'm sorry."

He continues, ignoring my plea, "Or what about that time she tried to attach various objects with a needle and thread?"

Cierien's head drops to his knees, his voice muffled as he speaks, "Certainly wasn't my favorite."

"Or the time with the mouse and heat lamp? Ouch." Wrath laughs, reminiscing about their painful past ordeals.

I scramble to turn away, doubling over as I expel all the sickness I feel. I gag, clutching my stomach as I heave up everything left over. Tears drain down my face, mixing with the mess on the ground, as I cry out unintelligible apologies.

"I-I'm s-so sorry. I'm so sorry." I repeat, shuddering in distress, as I struggle to calm my breathing, but failing nevertheless.

I grab at my throat, feeling like my tongue is to big for my mouth as it obstructs my airway. I press two fingers against my pulse, seeking to gauge whether my heart is racing too fast or if I'm merely succumbing to panic.

It's beating too fast.

I choke on my sobs, my nose too blocked and my throat too constricted to breathe. I dig my nails into my arm, hoping the sharp pain will offer me a momentary distraction long enough for me to draw in a desperate breath.

These men have endured a level of suffering beyond my comprehension, and yet here I am, using the offering of my blood to manipulate them into providing me with answers. Their need for freedom far outweighs my own curiosity for answers.

I'm just like my parents.

I find myself echoing the actions of my parents, exploiting their desperation for my own gains. It's a realization that cuts deep, causing me to unconsciously scratch at my arm, adding to the pain that already engulfs me. In an attempt to assuage my own discomfort, I'm inadvertently mirroring the cruelty that my mother once exhibited.

I shift my attention to the glass cup, its contents diminished by our conversation. I shakily begin to fill the two cups and push them cautiously toward Wrath. His gaze remains fixed on me, suspicion evident in his narrowed eyes. He hesitates before downing the liquid in one swift motion.

I then turn to Cierien, holding the glass cup out to him. Attempting to hold back my sobs, my voice wavers as I speak, "I'm so sorry. Please, Cierien, drink."

His eyes widen, a tumultuous battle of emotions raging within him as he shifts his gaze between me and the cup. His internal struggle is palpable, evident in the uncertainty etched across his features.

"I can't. I'm not like him," his voice wobbly, as vulnerability seeps through his words.

Wrath scoffs, impatience apparent in his tone, "Drink the damn blood, Cier."

I tilt my head, puzzled by his refusal, "Why can't you? You need-"

"I don't need to do anything!" his voice cracks with frustration, and in a sudden surge of intensity, he snatches the glass from my hand and hurls it against the cell wall. The shattering sound jolts me, and I instinctively move back, my words stumbling as I attempt to convey my intent.

"I'm sorry, I just mean you should-"

"You should get out!" He growls, his voice raw with anger, eyes flashing with a passion that startles me. "You should leave and forget all about this place. Seal the door and never look back."

My resolve strengthens in response to his outburst. "I can't leave two people down here," I assert firmly, determination coursing through my voice.

He raises his hands to his hair and tugs at it, a picture of exasperation and torment. Pacing the confines of his cell, his movements grow erratic. Manic laughter bellows out of him, the sound both unsettling and distressing.

Abruptly he halts, dropping his hands and whipping his head around to look at me. The manic laughter subsides, and his smile dissipates into an expression that is difficult to decipher.

"If I get out of this cell, I'll kill you."

His words strike me like a physical blow, causing the air to catch in my throat. I freeze, locked into a stare with him, desperately hoping that his next words will somehow dispel the chilling threat he just uttered. A heavy silence hangs between the three of us, and the weight of his statement lingers, leaving me with a gnawing sense of dread. I search his eyes, desperately seeking any signs of his words being a mere jest, but I find nothing.

I slowly begin stuffing the journals back into the bag. I grab for the large taser, clutching it tightly and using its presence as a source of assurance.

"If you leave us down here, then I will kill you," Wrath growls.

The air is thick with tension, and I struggle to maintain my composure in the face of both of their ominous warnings. The two of them, locked in their cells like caged predators, exude an aura of danger that's impossible to ignore. I glance back and forth between them, torn between the urgency of my own safety and the moral dilemma of their confinement.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," I sob.

I watch Cierien's face contorts, a wave of fear running through me. My breath hitches as his eyes take on an eerie crimson hue. Veins emerge from underneath his eyes, moving ever so slowly. The sight of his mouth opening to reveal two pointed fangs confirms his threat.

He's going to kill me if I let him go.

Every instinct in my body screams at me to run, but my legs feel like they're rooted to the spot. It's his following words that send me into autopilot.

"So sweet. Let me taste you, Avalyn."

I throw the bag over my shoulder and run, nearly slipping on something in the process- the key.

Well, it's too late to turn back now.

//

eeeeee things are about to get really exciting.

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