Page 32 of The Witch's Heart
I scoff. "Yes. Obviously."
"In what ways specifically?" he asks.
This feels like a trick question, but I can't imagine why. The horrors are pretty damn clear. "I've been locked in a freezing cage. Starved. Left without access to a proper bathroom or plumbing. Slapped. Hit. Forced into some pretty deranged art therapy. I've been denied any kind of outside contact with anyone from my life." I cock my head, staring at him. "That's a lot for starters, don't you think?"
"I can't imagine the pain you're in," he says sadly, his expression unreadable but his voice dripping with heartbreak. "I know this must be so confusing. It must be impossible to know how to process all you've been through. That's why I'm here, Celeste. I want to help you. To give you hope. But the first step is seeing the truth."
I yank my hands from his and cross my arms over my chest. "That's the point I've been trying to make since I got here," I say stubbornly. "No one's telling me the truth. You’re all lying, and it's not helping anyone here, least of all me. If your aim is to heal me, you're doing a shit job of it."
Dr. Livingstone presses his lips together. "Celeste, what will I find when I unlock this door and go downstairs to your room?"
I narrow my eyes at him. "A medieval style dungeon that's cold and dirty. A cot with a threadbare blanket. A bucket to piss in. Rats. You know, the standard dungeon shit."
He nods and turns to open the door.
I walk behind him smugly prepared for his horror when he realizes how we've been treated.
We traverse down a flight of stairs and he opens the next door, into the dungeon hall.
My breath hitches as I look around, my gut clenching at what I'm witnessing.
This can’t be right.
Dr. Livingstone places his hand on my lower back and guides me gently forward, while I struggle to breathe. My feet move forward on auto-pilot as my mind struggles to make sense of what I’m seeing.
"What the hell is this?" I ask in a whisper.
"What it has always been," he says softly, stopping at the spot my cell has always been. "Your room."
He looks down at me with such pity I want to vomit. "Celeste, what do you see now?"
I suck in my breath and shake my head. "This doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense."
"What doesn't make sense?" he asks in a way people ask questions they already know the answers to.
"This wasn't here before," I say, panic clawing at my throat. I work to remain calm but adrenaline pumps through me as I struggle to understand.
I'm not looking at the dirty, drafty cell I've been staying in. Instead, I'm looking at a comfortable bedroom with a plush bed, thick comforter and an adjoining bathroom. There's a dresser, a wash basin, and in the corner trash can, piles of rotting, uneaten food. There's a thick carpet spread under the bed and a chair with neatly folded clothes.
I look behind me to Dean and Declan's room and, through their half-open door, I see a similarly comfortable arrangement.
"Yes, we lock the doors at night to keep you and others safe," Dr. Livingstone says. "But you have been fed regularly since you got here, and you keep throwing the food out. You were given clothing you refused to wear." He tilts my chin to look up at him. "Your mind has been playing tricks on you. That's why you're here."
Tears burn my eyes. "This can't be real."
"How much do you remember of the night you tried to take your life?" he asks.
"All of it," I say, trying not to panic. "I remember all of it."
"I don't think you do," he says. "The reason you're here and not a regular hospital is to protect you."
"From who?" I ask. Fear curls in my gut. If they can do this—if they can make me doubt my own sanity—how much more are they capable of?
"From yourself.”
“But why would I do this? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“The night you tried to kill yourself, you hurt someone with your magic."
