Page 83 of Sin Like the Devil

When the screeching white noise abruptly shuts off, it takes several moments for it to even register. My ears are ringing so violently. I don’t bother shifting from my curled-up ball on the cold floor. They can drag me to whatever they have planned next for all I care.

The cell door swings open, emitting my favourite sadist, Doctor Farnsworth. He’s an old, ugly son of a bitch. Only this time, he isn’t alone. I don’t recognise the other elderly, silver-haired man practically dripping with wealth and self-importance.

“This is one of our troublemakers.” Doctor Farnsworth gestures towards me like I’m a plant that refuses to grow. “No progress despite following our usual methods.”

The second old bastard casts a critical eye over me. “We haven’t had one this stubborn since Patient Seven in Blackwood. He was a tough nut to crack.”

“Unfortunately, sir, there are no signs of cracking here. I believe this subject has an extreme tolerance to our physical and psychological methods. His history is already extensive.”

If I could move a muscle, I’d laugh. These assholes don’t scare me. They haven’t quite clocked the extent of my indifference yet. Their pain is no motivator. I cherish it. Lavish in it. The agony is a warm, soft blanket that will never compare to the horrors I’ve already survived.

Pain is my fascination. Other people’s suffering. Fuck, even my own. For years, I carved pieces off myself, layering scar upon scar to see how much blood it would take for me to break. When that failed, my attention shifted to the agony of others instead.

“Cease all activities with this one.”

“But, Sir Bancroft?—”

“We’ve wasted enough resources.” Old Bastard looks thoughtful, his wrinkled mouth pulled taut.

“Should we dispose of him?” Doctor Farnsworth asks.

“That would be wasteful. I can think of far better uses for such promising resilience. It is rare these days. Your last stooge met an unfortunate end, isn’t that so?”

“Yes, sir. This one and his friend saw to it.”

“Then allow them to clean up the mess they made. Make him your stooge along with the other one.” Bancroft approaches then crouches down to address me. “Do you want out of this cell, son?”

I summon the energy to barely nod.

“You know the price for defying us now. Your freedom isn’t free.”

With a final lingering look, he straightens.

“You work for Incendia Corporation now.”

I don’t wake up screaming like most who suffer with night terrors. It’s more like lucid dreaming. I’m often aware that the hell I’m trapped in isn’t real, but that doesn’t make the memories any less horrifying.

Sitting upright in the twin bed, soaked covers pool around my waist, letting cold air lash against my bare, sweat-slick chest. A shiver threatens to wrack over me as I cool down. Lennox is snoring his head off in the adjacent bed—unperturbed, as usual.

We had the luxury of separate rooms in Priory Lane. Being in close quarters isn’t my favourite thing. I like silence. Invisibility. Some of my best work is done in the shadows, far from the distraction of those with more morals.

Your freedom isn’t free.

I didn’t give a fuck what price I had to pay. I would’ve done the damn job for free. Bargaining our release from the Z wing was a mere bonus.

Rising from the bed, my steps are light and barely audible. Lennox doesn’t stir as I shut myself in the small, attached bathroom and set the shower to cold. Funny how the mind craves what once traumatised it.

Ice-cold water sluices over my body. Goosebumps dapple across scar-striped skin. Most of the marks are white and shiny, softened by time. It’s been several years since I took a blade to my own skin.

The thin stripes of raised tissue cover both arms up to my biceps. When I ran out of room, I moved to my stomach, then thighs. Once every inch had been tested, I grew tired of my own pain and looked elsewhere.

Then the real fun began.

By the time I’ve imprisoned the dreams back in their mental confines, Lennox is sitting upright in bed. I tuck a towel around my hips and comb a hand through my wet, snow-white hair.

“Another dream?” he asks.

I hum noncommittally.

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