DEVIANT [H.S.]

15 - A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes

Personally, I believe that if you want to fix someone, if you want to help someone recover from whatever they're going through, that someone has to be willing to let you. You shouldn't force assistance. If they don't want your help, they don't want it.

That's exactly what I am going through right now.

Five weeks. I have dealt with attitudes like that for the past five weeks. Some Deviants don't want help. They want to live with their condition. But they don't know that Mona and others are getting better, they're showing progress.

And I know, it sounds like a lot of time that could pass by very slowly, but I beg to differ.

It has passed by so fast.

The only things that have remained constant are my days with Caleb and my nights with Harry, which messes with my head.

Many things have happened. Caleb has finally understood what it means to stay put. He always wants to leave my quarters. But, he can't. Not in this environment. He tries to escape while I'm in the lab, but he knows that if he leaves, he won't be able to get back in.

Harry has had nightmare after nightmare every night for the past few weeks. He won't tell me what they're about, though I know he always wakes up sweating and holding me tighter to make sure I'm still in his grasp.

All I do throughout my days is wait for that one night that I can go out of the compound with Harry and just be free. Have a couple of hours with no restrictions... just him and I, without all of this.

Malachi has been keeping an eye on me, watching me diagnose multiple Deviants with the actual term of their symptom. He has helped me retrieve some things from the Retrieval, which has been extremely helpful.

Sometimes he's too helpful, yet too distant. And I don't know whether to be fond of him, or to hold him as a suspicion.

And me? I've been alright. I like it here. I'm used to the concrete walls and stuffy air. I have been trying to contain my emotions because I don't want to come off as weak. However, I know that eventually, a time will come where I will have to cry. I will want to cry. But, I haven't yet.

In fact right now, I can actually cry out of happiness.

I'm sitting in the interrogation room on a stool, watching Harry carefully remove the cast on my wrist with a saw that resembles a pizza cutter. But it's all the more powerful.

His eyes are focused intently on the line he is making; he's almost to the edge.

"Breathe," I say quietly, hoping that he hears me. When I see him take a deep breath of air through his mouth, I know that he did.

With a crack and snip my cast is off and Harry picks up the remnants off of the floor, stopping for a moment.

He smiles, his eyes floating down to all of the markings he has made on my cast over the past weeks. He doesn't want to let go of those memories.

"How is your wrist?" He asks.

I poke at my uncasted wrist, the feeling so weird and so not me. My wrist feels loose. Like, crazy loose. I was so used to having it cooped up and secure that I never thought of how it would feel afterwards. It feels like it will fall off.

"Healed," I smile.

Harry notices my weariness and exhaustion and he steps closer to me, setting the broken cast down on the concrete floor.

"You need to sleep." He whispers, twirling a piece of my hair in his fingers.

"I don't need sleep, I need to help you all..." I mumble, leaning into his touch.