Page 39 of The Witch's Heart
“How long doyouthink you’ve been here?” he asks.
I glare at him through my bangs that have grown too long. If I had more strength, more energy—or even any at all, I would rage. I would punch the wall. I would scream.
But all I have left is my glare. “Why can’t anyone here answer a damn question?” I ask through clenched teeth. “Is it so hard? To give the time? To give the date? To give the most basic of god damn information?”
The doctor’s face softens in that way I have come to crave and hate in equal measure. So full of compassion, of genuine concern, and yet here we are. So how much compassion and concern could he possibly have? And I hate myself even more for the feeling in my gut when he looks at me that way. Warm and loved and safe… when none of that is true or real.
I’m an idiot.
“I engage in reflective listening to help you process your reality and discover the answers for yourself,” he says, his accent lilting and sexy.
“It’s not helpful,” I say.
He nods, like he agrees, but I know it won’t change anything.
I see a flash of something from the corner of my eye, but I don’t move my head to look. I’ve learned to avoid showing my hand when it comes to the ghosts that haunt this place. I don’t want them to know what I can see, what I can hear… what I can learn.
They aren’t the only ones watching and waiting.
I can watch and wait too.
“I have a surprise for you,” he says with a boyish grin that makes my traitorous stomach flutter.
“You’re freeing me?” I ask, but of course I know that’s not what he was going to say. I just want to deflate him as much as this place has deflated me.
It works; his smile drops into a disappointed frown. “I’m sorry, Celeste. You know we can’t do that. Not until we can be sure you’re not a threat—”
“To myself or others. Yeah, I know the company line.”
He stands, straightening his striped dress shirt as he does, and holds out a hand. “I’d still like to show you the surprise. It may not be what you want, but I do believe you’ll like it.”
I sigh, but take his hand. Mostly because all the drugs they’re pumping me with make it hard to walk on my own sometimes.
And not because I like the way his large hand feels wrapped around mine—which has become bony and frail since my time here.
I feel as if I’m made of bird bones, like I could be easily snapped to pieces by the smallest of creatures.
He guides me out of his office and through a long hall towards a door I’ve never been allowed to use before.
With a skeleton key he keeps tucked in his pant pocket, he unlocks it and steps through, my hand still clutched in his.
I don’t know what I’m expecting behind this magical door, but it’s disappointing nonetheless.
More hallways.
I’m convinced now more than ever that hell is just one long hallway with doors that just lead to more hallways.
We walk side by side through hell together, him with a spring in his undead step, me with a slight limp because my right foot fell asleep during yet another unproductive session.
And then we reach another door.
Oh yay.
“I’ve seen doors before,” I tell him. “And hallways… if that was your surprise.”
He rolls his eyes at me with a cheeky grin. “We’re not at the surprise yet. Be patient.”
Right, because what else do I have but patience and time? Not like I’ve got a hot date tonight.
