Patient B-2

Chapter Six: Avalyn

 The drive back to our apartment was suffocating, burdened with silent tension and the weight of our shared pain upon the discovery. Once we reached the sanctuary of our home, the tension shattered, and Idalia's anguish poured forth. Various objects flew past me as I dodged, watching her unleash her fury upon our living room, careful to avoid the danger of getting struck.

 I keep quiet, wary of the storm brewing within her, not wanting her to turn this onto me. Cautiously, I make my way toward the phone resting on the kitchen counter. Fingers gliding across the screen, I navigate to the calendar app, revealing our next scheduled event— a party.

 My focus shifts abruptly as the cacophony of breaking items gives way to a sudden, violent coughing fit. With a sharp turn, I rush to the living room, where I find her doubled over, crimson droplets staining the pristine hardwood beneath her. "Damn it," I mutter under my breath, sprinting to her side in alarm.

 She lifts a trembling hand, the other moving to dab at her mouth. "I'm okay," she insists, her voice barely above a whisper, yet laced with fragility.

 Before I can respond, another wave of harsh coughs racks her frail frame, punctuating the severity of the situation. Her complexion has paled noticeably, rendering her almost ghost-like against the dimly lit room. Her eyes are rimmed with red, matching the gleam of her irises. Her breathing becomes erratic, each inhales a struggle against invisible assailants. If not for the context, one might mistake her distress for the onset of a panic attack. Yet, Idalia, with her unwavering demeanor, never succumbs to panic, even in the face of such dire circumstances. "When will you tell me what this is?" I demand, my voice stripped of sympathy and tinged with frustration.

 "It's none of your concern," she retorts firmly, her gaze fixed on some distant point, refusing to meet my eyes.

 She takes a moment to compose herself, swallowing hard as she uses a trembling hand to brush aside stray locks of hair. With meticulous care, she straightens the fabric of her elegant dress, moistening her lips before attempting to rise. Instinctively, I reach out to offer assistance, but she recoils, casting me a look of disdain that cuts deeper than any blade, branding me as nothing more than a fool in her eyes.

 How dare I try to help her.

 I scoff in frustration, observing as she hurries off to the kitchen, grabbing a cloth to mop up the blood, yet leaving the rest of the living room in disarray. With an exasperated roll of my eyes, I know she'll leave me with the inevitable task of cleaning up later tonight. But I refuse to be manipulated by her stubbornness; if she insists on handling everything alone, then she can deal with the consequences herself.

 "The living room won't clean itself," I remark with a deadpan tone as soon as she rises to her feet.

 Her eyes darken, the crimson hue intensifying, yet a hint of her natural complexion begins to return, a spark of life reigniting within her features. In an instant, she reverts to her usual self— a cunning, manipulative bitch. "I'll fucking kill—"

 "The next event is a party, held at a Wellington residence," I interject, swiftly changing the topic.

 "Fuck the party. We need to attend another auction. If Aren is there, we're getting him out," she declares with a fierce growl, her tone daring me to oppose her.

 I retaliate firmly, "No, we're going to the party. We need intel, and what better place than a house party filled with inebriated individuals? It's a strategic move. Plus, it'll kill time until the next auction."

 She rises to her feet, arms folded across her chest, and treats me to an overly dramatic eye roll. It's a performance I've seen before, a tactic to prolong the decision-making process, as if she's the ultimate arbiter of our actions.