Page 38 of Brainwashed
The Carver is here.
“We all deserve this.”
“No…”
“Each and every one of us… We’re here for a damn good reason.”
“No no no…”
“We were born this way.”
Rolling my body along the padded walls of my cell, I listen to the screams up the hall, like a symphony in my ears. It’s a sound I’ve gotten used to over the years, the blood-curdling yelps of people who areafraid. The natural instinct to release your nerves through bellows of pain, desperation and fright, working its way up your throat via your vocal cords.
My victims never really screamed much, because I used the element of surprise to my advantage. Screaming draws attention, after all. Something you can’t have when you’re actively trying to be sneaky.
Many of them would cry. Beg and plead… The ones who were conscious for it. The ones whodeservedit. I always liked letting them know they were about to die; that there was a reason whytodaywould be their last.
The others, though, I kept blissfully unaware. I didn’t want them scared… And I definitely didn’t want them to be mad at me for killing them. It would defeat the purpose.
I wanted to keep them happy. Keep themwithme.
The screams from up the hall are satisfying. Mainly because they’re not mine. They’rehis.
They’ve really been going ham on O’Malley with the electricity. It worries me a bit, because I don’t want him to forget who I am. I want him to remember that I’m the serial killer he thinks he’snothing like. If he forgets about it, then I lose the satisfaction of proving him wrong.
O’Malley and I haven’t spoken as much as I would have liked to at this point, especially considering that we’re always neighbors, whether we’re in the exam rooms or the padded cells. He’s not a big talker, it seems. He talks to himself more than he talks to me. Screams at no one.
Maybe the walls, or the guards, or the doctors we all know are around here somewhere. Or maybe he’s screaming at The Ivory, since everything that happens in here is truly his doing.
O’Malley screams more than all thirty-six of my victims put together. He shouts about his innocence, his blamelessness, his victimization. When he’s not screaming in pain, like he is now at the charbroiling of his brain from inside his skull, he roars nonstop without taking a single sliver of responsibility. And it drives me fuckingnuts.
I don’t know what he’s done to be in here. I’ve asked, but he won’t tell me. Regardless, I know he belongs. He’s crazier than the craziest person I’ve seen in this prison so far; that much is clear. No one is innocent, especially people locked away with electrodes stuck to their temples. The fact that he blames everyone for his circumstances makes my eye twitch.
I’m not saying I’m the picture of stability or anything. Clearly, I have my own issues. But one thing you won’teverfind me doing is blaming other people for what I’ve done.
Whether or not they deserved it isn’t the point. That shit was all me, and I’ve made my peace with it.
It’s making a lot more sense now, why O’Malley thinks he’s nothing like me. I just wish I could find out what he’s done…
I suppose this interest I’ve taken in him is like a pet project. Something to distract me from where I am. Sure, being in the East Wing is infinitely more entertaining than solitary, but that’s only because each day you’re subjected to a new experiment. Yesterday, they held my eyes open while they forced me to watch some seriously deranged shit, even by my standards. It was like something straight out ofA Clockwork Orange, and sure, in the moment, it was severely unpleasant. But once I stopped shaking, I couldn’t help bursting into a fit of giggles.
Fun fact: it was shortly after that fun little mental game that a frazzled Dash came barreling through the East Wing, free as a bird. From what I could tell, he escaped Rook’s hold for a few minutes.The poor rookie…
It was nice looking at Dash’s pretty face again, though. Even if only for a few minutes, with him all skittish. I’ll admit, I was worried for him. And I’m the one being tortured in the name ofresearch.
I don’t know what they expect to gain from these experiments, but I can’t imagine they’re garnering any groundbreaking results.
When I’m on my twentieth rotation around the room, it occurs to me that the screaming has stopped, and there are shuffling noises coming my way. I immediately dart to the door so I can watch what’s happening through the tiny window.
Sure enough, there’s Claude the orderly and Dr. Templeton dragging a limp O’Malley up the hall, right past my cell. They open the door to the cell next to mine and shove him inside, locking up and leaving without a word. Leaning up against the wall, I listen closely to the baked potato formerly known as Kieran O’Malley.
I hear him mumbling, but I can’t make out his words. So I tap on the wall. “O’Malley? You alright over there?”
“Don’t talk to me,” he gurgles. “Yer a curse.”
I can’t help the snort of laughter that gusts out. “Thank you. I take that as a compliment.”
“Not… funny,” he breathes unsteadily, and I can hear the sounds of him struggling in his straitjacket.
