Page 41 of Brainwashed
Our eyes meet for a brief moment that seems to slow down time. Seconds tick by like carbonation bubbles of anticipation fizzling throughout my extremities.What will he do??I’m anxiously awaiting his next move.
But then he goes to the door behind me, opening it a crack and murmuring to Velle, “All set.”
That’s it??
My stomach plummets in disappointment. I don’t want to leave yet, not without even a single word directed at me.
Before he walks away, I lean in, taking a subtle whiff of his smell, my eyes nearly rolling back in my skull. His cologne is intoxicating. Clean, like freshly laundered clothes, body wash and a few other things I’m sure I’ll be thinking about for hours.
While Velle stomps in and shackles me, I watch the man as he returns to his desk, opening the file back up to disregard my presence once more. Velle pushes me to the office door, and I hear that deep voice one last time as he mutters,thank you, Officer, on our way out.
I’m distracted as hell on the way back to my cell. My mind is running like a herd of wild stallions, wondering all sorts of things, until I just can’t keep it in for one more second.
“What was his name again?” I ask Velle.
Velle’s dark gaze falls to mine and his brows pull together. “He didn’t tell you his name?” He seems befuddled by this fact. I shake my head, and he scoffs. “It’s Dr. Love. Dr. Lemuel Love, Ph-fuckin-D.”
I can’t help the small grin that tugs at my lips as I breathe the name, “Dr. Love…”
Wow. What a name…
“I know, right?” Velle chuckles.
We reach my cell and Velle shoves me back inside, removing my shackles, and locking me away before I can even ask him anything else, like when I’ll see Dr. Love again. Not that he knows that, or would tell me if he did. But I’m just so…intrigued.
That doctor is certainly not at all what I expected when the Warden told me they were sending someone to study me. That man in there…Dr. Lemuel Love… looks like someone I would see in a club back in Manhattan, and wind up following around for days. Maybe weeks.
My thoughts bring me onto the floor, where I plop down, resting my head on the padded wall. O’Malley’s cries have since dried up, and now there’s nothing but silence, and the sounds in my brain.
A decadent brogue I’m finding myself desperate to hear again. From the first doctor I think I might actually want to speak with.
Sleeping might just be the worst part of residing in the East Wing.
At least in solitary, I had a bed. Sure, it was old and rickety, and the mattress pad felt like cardboard. But still, it wassomething.
Here in the East, you sleep either on the floor, or in that goddamn exam chair, and I can’t really tell which is worse. The exam chair is marginally more comfortable, I guess, but you’re usually strapped into it, so your limbs have a tendency to go numb. In the padded cells, you kind of just pass out on the floor, laced up in your straitjacket. It’s very uncomfortable, but at least the straitjacket serves as a bit of a shield from the cold. In fact, it gets pretty stuffy inside, which is some mild torture on its own. Like when a bead of sweat rolls down your back and tickles like crazy, but there’s nothing you can do about it…
I swear, I don’t want to let them know this place is getting to me, but I really fucking hate it in here. The thought that I’ve only been locked up for about six months, and I still have the rest of my life to go, is enough to drive me completely bonkers if I let it.
Rolling onto my back, I stare up at the ceiling, the same miserable off-white shade as the rest of this stupid room. The only distinguishing difference is the small square-covered light in the center, which is turned off right now. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s around midnight. But I would have no way of knowing. It could be eight p.m. It could be eight a.m.
Closing my eyes, I try to remember something good, something that will transport me out of here, if even for a few goddamn seconds. I miss dreaming so badly, I can’t stand it.
Where did my dreams go??
They used to be so vivid. Colorful and loud, scattered with faces and places I recalled, and those I didn’t.
Blood splashes across my face.
I glance down at the large form beneath me and I grin.
You’re mine now, Mr. Kline…
A distinct grunt pulls me away from my memory, and I groan out of frustration. It’s coming from the wall, which means it’s actually coming from O’Malley. Tilting my face in that direction, I hear another noise, and it registers in my mind as a moan.
I squint at the wall.Is he jerking off??
It can’t be. They leave us in straitjackets in here. There’s no way he has his hands.
