Page 11 of The Witch's Heart
“Celeste.”
“Celeste, what are your plans for the future?”
I blink, thrown off by the question. When I don’t answer, he doesn’t look surprised. In fact, the smugness in his expression tells me he expected this.
“I’d like you to take some time to think about that during your stay here.”
“Why do you care? Why does anyone here care about me?”
“All of us atLe Rêveare committed to your care, Celeste. We want to see you take an active role in your own healing while you’re here. You’ll have individual sessions with me, group art therapy, and other opportunities for care customized to your needs.”
“So there are others here?”
I think of the empty cells I passed on my way here. Are there others roaming these halls? Patients capable of becoming beasts like Declan?
“Each of our patients are moving at their own pace. Group sessions will be an opportunity for you to see how far others have come.”
“And the rest of the time?” I push. “I take it I’ll be locked away in the dungeon until Nurse Slap-happy comes to force me upstairs?”
He looks ready to argue with me again but says instead, “Would you like a quick tour before lunch?”
A tour means more chances for escape.
Or at the very least, a closer look at where the hell I am.
“A tour sounds great.”
I follow him out of his office and down the hall decorated in landscapes. The doctor stops and opens each door, offering me a quick look inside.
“This is where we meet for our group sessions,” he says, and I note the metal folding chairs in the center and a shelf on the far wall lined with stuffed animals and small pillows.
“We like to offer security items to our group members. It helps us feel safer when we share things that make us feel vulnerable.”
I roll my eyes.
Does he believe the shit he’s saying? Stuffed animals make us feel safe when we’re being held prisoner against our will?
“What’s down that hall?” I stop and point to a set of double doors bordered with red paint and a sign above that readsRestricted.
“That’s the research wing,” he says.
“What do you research?”
He hesitates only a second before turning back towards his own office. “I don’t know.”
“You work here, and you don’t know?”
He stops and looks back at me, his handsome face unreadable. “I focus on what I’m here to do.”
“And what’s that?”
“To help you make peace with yourself.”
His answer is so simple, yet his words hit me in a way I’m not expecting. Tears burn at the corners of my eyes, and I blink them back, horrified at the thought of crying in front of him. A single tear escapes before I can stop it, and my shock is complete when the doctor reaches out and swipes the tear away with the pad of his thumb.
We both still, and he stares back at me, my own surprise mirrored in his face. My cheeks heat, and my skin tingles where he touched me.
“Apologies, that was inappropriate,” he murmurs, but neither of us move, and I can’t bring myself to accept his apology.
