Page 23 of Heal Me

The corners of his lips tip up in a small smile that lights up his eyes. “I kind of like you like this.” His gaze trails down my restrained arms, the straps at my waist, and the one between my legs. I swear I see some kind of hunger darkening his expression just before he turns and leaves.

He wants me.

***

I feel a bit like a smitten teenager as I sit in my cell after Dorin’s gone, and I find myself choosing pretty love songs as I sing. The feeling of going insane has faded somewhat, even despite being confined to a straitjacket like a mad person. It didn’t feel like Dorin put the straitjacket on me to subdue a crazy person. It felt… possessive.

The thought makes me rock along to the rhythm of the song as hope grows inside me. It’s a dangerous hope, but one I can’t help but clinging to. Because unlike Zoltan, Dorin’s obsession is not just about my voice or my pretty face. It reaches much deeper.

A slow scraping makes me look toward the door. The hatch, which the orderlies never use, is open, and a pair of curious eyesare looking at me through it. The person doesn’t do anything, just watches.

“Who are you?” I ask in Russian. The guards here speak all kinds of languages, some Russian too, so I usually start in my mother tongue. When I don’t get a response, I shift to English. “Who are you?” Still no answer, so I add, “A new orderly?”

I have a hunch that’s not the case. The eyes look soft and feminine. Innocent, unlike all the hardened men who usually come in here.

The woman on the other side of the door confirms my hunch with a shake of her head.

“A doctor?” I ask, hope sparking within me. “Or a therapist? Is he finally letting me get some real treatment?”

A frown draws a furrow between the thin brows. She’s clearly neither a doctor nor a therapist. I guess that was only hopeful thinking from the beginning. Her behavior would be quite strange for someone working here. There’s only one possibility that makes sense. I get up and approach her, smiling softly, as I ask, “Or are you a patient too?”

She steps back as I reach the door. Leaning against it, I peer out through the opening. What I see almost makes me gasp. The person out there is a woman indeed, and she’s naked like I usually am. Except for one single item. A wide piece of leather covers her whole jaw in a snug fit. Straps go over each side of her nose, connecting into a single one that goes over her head, and two more keep the mask in place at the sides. I can’t even begin to imagine why she’s wearing it. To keep her quiet? Or keep her from biting? Then why is she roaming free like this? Has she somehow snuck off?

A foreboding sense tightens my stomach, but I ignore it, knowing it’s not this girl I need to be afraid of. She looks harmless. Timid and nervous if anything. As I keep watching themask, embarrassment seems to tighten her expression, making her eyes flicker back and forth.

“No need for embarrassment,” I say, giving a small chuckle to try and lighten the mood. But I find that shame rears its ugly head inside me as I add, “I’m in a straitjacket.” I’ve been in this thing all day, and some of the orderlies have even helped me to the bathroom without me thinking much about it. Then again, they’re always cold and indifferent. Somehow, having this girl seeing it makes me see it from the outside in a way I haven’t for a long time—a straitjacket, a padded cell, locked up at this facility because I’m in danger to myself.

We stare at each other for a moment, and something unspoken seems to pass between us. A shared understanding.

It makes me want to open up. I badly crave a connection to someone other than Dorin, and seeing her embarrassment at her predicament makes me bare my innermost vulnerabilities. Averting my gaze, I say, “I’m on suicide watch.” I glance back at her. “At least, so I think. They don’t really tell me much.” I change direction, hoping she might offer me some of the answers Dorin refuses to give. “Have you been in a padded cell too? Do you get to roam free when you get out?”

She shakes her head once, then repeats.No and no.

“Do you get electrotherapy too? And straitjackets?” I ask, my voice falling as I feel the defeat of it all. Shame burns inside me as I add the next question, but I hope this girl will somehow alleviate the humiliation. “And do they touch you inappropriately too?”

She lifts a finger and shakes her head. I’m not quite sure what she means until she lifts another finger and shakes her head again.She’s answering my questions.Holding up a third finger, she gives me the answer I need the most. A long affirmative nod confirms that they use her sexually too.

Fear drops into my stomach, and there’s that foreboding sense again. I want to ask the question that has been swirling in my mind since the night I had that horrible dream:Is this actually a mental facility?But once again, I ignore it, not daring to face the consequence of a shake of her head. So instead of fishing for more information, I search for common ground.

“Do you like it? I mean… the way they touch you? Do you come?” I bite my lips together as I realize how I’m once again confessing howbrokenI am. Even so, I keep going. “It feels wrong, doesn’t it? The methods they use here? But somehow, it seems to work.”

I drop my eyes to the padded floor, hating how badly I’m missing Dorin’s touch and the shameful things he’s made me endure. My heart suddenly aches horribly with the need, and at that moment, I’m not sure if it truly is Dorin I want or if it’s because it’s the only kind of connection I’m getting in this barren, empty place. Tears well in my eyes, and I don’t even try to hold them in as fingers come through the hatch and brush my cheek.

Looking up, I find the girl having moved close. Her eyes are soft and sympathetic as she gives a slow nod. Her brows lift slightly. It’s almost as if she’s saying that she gets it. That it’s okay.

A weight lifts from my chest, and everything feels a bit lighter. I’m about to thank her when she suddenly looks off to the side, seeming to remember something. She’s clearly not supposed to be here, and now she’s leaving.

“Will you be back?” I ask.

She looks me over and nods. It’s an uncertain confirmation, but it’s there—she wants to, but she’s not sure she can.

“Do it after lunch if you can,” I say. “The orderlies rarely come in here at that time. I think they’re on a break of their own. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

She nods again, this time more eagerly. Then her hands move up to close the hatch. Just as she begins to pull it shut, I add, “My name is Lavinia, by the way. I wish I could know yours.”

She considers for a moment, a wealth of uncertainty and heavy emotion passing over her face as her head seems to be working overtime. Then she looks down at her arm, and the uncertainty draws back somewhat. I breathe as quietly as possible as she hovers, seeming to debate something with herself.

Her nostrils flutter with a heavy sigh as she lifts her right arm and holds the underside up. I gasp at the sight of a small but prominent tattoo that stands out on her pale skin.DAX001it says. The mark speaks more than words, tightening the quiet bond that has already grown between us. Someone marked her just like they marked me. I wonder if she’s here for the same reason as me—if she tried to take her own life too. Or maybe she went mad from the abuse. Maybe she’d scream or speak in tongues if they removed the mask.

---