Page 111 of Brainwashed
He shifts so that he’s sitting cross-legged too. “Why would I leave?”
“Is that a trick question?” I give him a pointed look.
“No…” he murmurs. “Seriously. What’s out there for me, anyway?”
I shrug. “I don’t know… freedom. Life. Chances and choices.”
“I suppose.” He sighs dreamily. “All of Felix Darcey’s problems with none of The Carver’s fame.”
His words click into place.
“You mean because everyone thinks you’re dead…”
He nods. “I thought about it. I could have fun in the outside world. Sure I could. But then… I can have fun in here, too.”
His gray eyes sort of linger on mine in a way that ripples in my stomach like a stone being tossed into a pond. It’s a similar look to the one he gave me while he was stroking his dick the other day…
“Why are you in a straitjacket?” I ask hoarsely, changing the subject.
“Johansson.” He sounds even more tired than he looks.
My muscles stiffen, and my blood heats with some ripening anger. “Is that right? And what was on the docket for today?”
“More of that obnoxious pain measurement,” he tells me. “They have this hot stick thing they were poking me with in various places on my body. I have marks.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. Crawling forward, I reach around him and untie the straitjacket, all the while ignoring how close we are and how he’s obviously sniffing me.
“Can you stop doing that?” I growl at him with his face damn-near buried in the crook of my neck.
“Sorry…” he mumbles. “What type of cologne do you wear? It’s like… really nice.”
“Felix. Enough.”
I get the straitjacket off of him and sure enough, there are small burn marks all over his arms. He lifts his t-shirt, revealing more on his torso. My eyes linger on the lines for a moment before springing up to his.
“Does it hurt?”
He shakes his head. “It wasn’t bad. I’ve always had a… high tolerance for pain.” His voice trails and he pinches his bottom lip between his fingers.
“I have to go.” I stand up fast.
He scrambles to his feet after me. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
Part of me wants to say no. Wants to put some distance between us, because I think it’s necessary to remind him of exactly what we are, and what’s happening here.
But then… there’s still so much I need from him.
So I nod, but speak no words. I leave his cell with a loud thunk and a clanking lock behind me.
And I run as fast as my legs will carry me back to the mansion.
Sometimes I like to count my heart beats.
I like to take note of how it slows down when I’m tired, or speeds up when I’m excited, or nervous. The heart is like a measure. A tool sitting inside our bodies to let us know how we’re feeling. I think that’s why they say the heart can guide you. Terms likelisten to your heart.
Realistically, it’s just an organ; a muscle that moves your blood around.
But its beats have meaning. Every thump is a moment spent waiting for the next.
