Page 7 of The Witch's Heart
Because surely I’m not actually a witch. And those sexy twins aren't actually werewolves. And I'm not actually being held in a dungeon posing as an asylum. That's all actually insane.
Right?
Despite the fact that I could use some real answers in the form of whatever help I can get, the voices in my head are silent now.
Nurse Slap-happy leads the way and I follow. I expect this door to lead us to another staircase to another door, but instead, I find myself walking down a perfectly normal looking hallway with hardwood floors and walls painted a calming teal and hung with innocuous paintings of nature. None of the art pieces catch my eye until we get to the end of the corridor and I see one that stands out from all the rest. It's a striking depiction of a snowstorm, and in the center is a wolf staring at the viewer with the fearless gaze of a predator.
The piece reminds me of Henri Fuseli's work, a study in expressionist landscape art, but with a distinct style all its own. I look more closely at the signature, but I don't recognize the artist's name. L Livingstone. I wrack my brain trying to pull up anything I might have read or heard about him or her. Thanks to my studies, I'm well versed in artists past and present, but that name doesn't jog any memories, which surprises me given the incredible skill and artistic vision.
Nurse Schmidt stops before a door to the left and raps her knuckles against it three times sharply.
"Come in," a deep, male, British voice says.
The nurse opens the door and gestures for me to enter. "Celeste D'LeLune here for her session."
I walk in, a nervousness gripping me.
The office is pretty standard. A desk, a bookshelf lined with medical and psychiatric books, a chair and a loveseat with a small side table. And more art by L Livingstone, each painting more striking than the next.
The man behind the desk is the most remarkable part of the room. He stands as I enter, and my breath hitches. He's absolutely beautiful, like an angel straight out of a Michelangelo.
His rich sepia-toned skin contrasts brilliantly with cobalt eyes that hold the depth of the ocean itself. His jaw is squared and chiseled, and his dark hair is short and stylishly messy. He's tall, lean, and fills out his suit with muscle that looks earned from more than just time in a gym. He taps his long, slender fingers against the desk and frowns when he looks at me. I resist the urge to fold my arms over my chest, very aware of the thinness of my gown.
"Nurse Schmidt, why is Miss D'LeLune's cheek bruising?"
The British accent is faint, a leftover from some time long past. His lips are set in a thin line as he stares down said nurse, waiting for her answer.
I turn my head to see her response and am morbidly pleased to see her defiance shrink into fear under his hard gaze.
"She back-talked me and needed to be taught a lesson."
The doctor walks around his desk, his eyes not wavering from hers as he stalks forward until he's inches from her. "That kind of behavior towards our patients will not be tolerated. Do you understand?"
Her eyes flick to the side, but her mouth hardens. "Dr. Musli—" she says, but he cuts her off.
"Dr. Musli is no longer here. I am in charge of these patients now, and what I say goes. Are we understood?"
She nods quickly and leaves the room, closing and locking the door on her way out.
I'm left alone with the doctor, who finally looks back to me, his face softening, his eyes taking in my disheveled state. "I apologize for all of this. You should have been given better treatment upon arrival.” His eyes flick to my gown. “Not to mention better clothing. Please, feel free to use my private bathroom and freshen up before our session begins. You’ll find an extra change of clothes inside."
He gestures to a door across the room, and I don't give it a second thought. I dash over and lock myself in. It's simple. A toilet, a shower, and a sink. Perched on the counter beside the sink is a pair of leggings and a thick sweater that’s way too big for me.
I use the toilet, sighing in relief as my bladder empties, then study myself in the mirror above the sink. My hair is a nest of tangles. My face is sallow and pale. My eyes have pronounced bags under them, and the doctor was right; thanks to Nurse Bitch, my cheek is beginning to bruise.
After dressing in the clothes provided, I splash cold water on my face and rinse out my mouth as best I can, then stare at the door that will lead me back to the doctor.
He seems nice, and it feels good to be out of that threadbare gown, but I know nothing about this place, and so I keep my guard up as I return to his office and take a seat across from him.
There's a glass of water and a cup of herbal tea waiting for me. I eye them suspiciously, worried about being drugged, but if I don't stay hydrated, I know I won't last long.
"Please, help yourself. You must be thirsty."
I take the water first and drink until the glass is empty. My head clears a bit, and my mouth and throat feel less desert-like. "Thank you," I say, though it's hard to express gratitude for anything in this hell.
But as I study the man before me, as I listen to his voice, I can't help but feel a familiarity. Have I met him before? I definitely feel like I would remember that.
"Miss D'LeLune, I'm Dr. Livingstone. Do you know why you've been brought here?"
