Page 51 of Brainwashed
The funny thing about silence is that sometimes it’s louder than noise.
I used to love silence… Thequietsurrounding me; enveloping me like a cocoon of tranquility. No voices, no questions. No forced pleasantries or empty words. Justnothing.
But then, when I was fourteen, something happened in the quiet. And after that, the silence became deafening. The lack of necessary rage, emotional reactions, screams and shouts of anger only disrupted me further. The quiet I used to relish was mocking me.
They have nothing to say. No one cares.
It doesn’t matter.
You don’t matter.
I suppose I still enjoy silence in a sense. I enjoy being the one to control the noise, blasting music when I’m in the car, when I’m working out. The loudness fills my ears, working into my brain to distract me from my endless thoughts.
Using the silence to my advantage has become my way of honing it. Maintaining that control I need to survive. The control that saved my life…
During my first meeting with my new patient, I explored that concept. I didn’t speak a word to him and let the quiet guide his behavior. It’s a method I’ve employed with Trevel in the past, and it works like a charm. People tend to reveal personality traits they may have been inclined to keep hidden when they’re bending to social convention. And let’s face it, the need to fill tense silences is a big one.
That’s the first thing that impressed me about Felix Darcey. He doesn’t seem to mind silence, whether it’s comfortable or not. He stood in my presence, and we just existed together, in the same shared space. It was fascinating.
I kept the wordless session going for our next meeting, and it was working well enough. Until he began asking me about the bookshelf in my office.
A small frisson rushes through me at the memory of him selectingmybook.I wonder if he’s been reading it… I wonder what someone like him would make of a book like that.
Letting out a content sigh, I stand and bring my empty plate to the sink. I just finished eating dinner alone at the kitchen table. There are all varieties of prepared foods here, cooked fresh and even marked with sell-by dates in the refrigerator. I just enjoyed a pork stir-fry which was actually very good, though it doesn’t surprise me that the food is delicious, being that Manuel Blanco’s personal chef is the one who cooks for the entire mansion. A very different state of affairs from the slop they ship over to feed the inmates at the prison.
Glancing around the dimly lit room, I peer out into the even more baleful atmosphere of the hallway. As creepy as my temporary home is, I must say, I’m enjoying my stay here so far. Sure, it’s only been three days, but still… I find this entire island enchanting, in a dreary sort of way.
My first day on Alabaster Isle, I was given a tour of this place, which they callthe Ivory Mansion, and from what I’ve gathered, there are two reasons for the name. One, it’s owned by Manuel Blanco, who’s also known asThe Ivory. And two, it’s made almost entirely of what looks to be white marble, or some kind of pale granite. The entire exterior of the mansion is white, fitting in with the wholealabastertheme. Ivory white encompasses us in what is by far the most lavish and peculiar house I’ve ever seen.
Houseisn’t even correct, because this place is a mansion in every sense of the word. It’s almost the same size as the prison, and with only about a mile of space between the two, going from one to the other is like entering a completely different world.
Where Alabaster Penitentiary is a crumbling mess of concrete, rust, and black mold, echoing the tortured shouts and barks of dangerous sociopaths, the Ivory Mansion is an elaborate, opulent castle. Oddly decorated interior, though it certainly fits the bleak vibe of the island, reverberating only the sounds of the ocean and the raging parties that occur in the guards’ quarters.
While on my tour, I was informed that The Ivory’s home is divided into two sections, quite literally split down the middle, though there’s no red line or anything. On the one side, all the guards reside. And apparently, they don’t just come home to eat, shower, and sleep. Manuel Blanco’s guy, Kent—whom I actually like because he barely speaks—told me that the correctional officers throw pretty wild parties over there. And while he urged me to stick to our side, he did let me know, subtly of course, that if I ever need anything, all I have to do isask.
I read between the lines. He was obviously referring to things like drugs or women, or both. So as it would seem, the remoteness of this island doesn’t stop people from coming over. Either way, I have no intention of crossing the line. I’m not one for parties. Never have been.
Even in college, I would stop by just to show face, then leave. I don’t mind going out on rare occasion, but I’ve always preferred to spend my time researching. Reading, watching documentaries, listening to podcasts. Learning is my primary hobby. Outside of that, I like to work out, play basketball, go hiking. All things you can do by yourself.Okay, maybe basketball is more entertaining with people, but still. It doesn’t need to be made into an event. You can just show up at the court, ball for a few, then leave.
The picture I’m painting of myself is one of a loner, and it’s accurate. I’ve never really been a people person. The only time I enjoy being around people is when I’m studying them.
As I’m wandering through the downstairs foyer, Felix Darcey pops into my head. It’s strange to consider, but after our few brief meetings, and reading his file so much I almost have the thing memorized, I feel like I know him quite well already. Of course, there’s infinitely more to learn, crumbs I could never sniff out just from reading his file and talking to him once. But his mannerisms, his reactions to varying factors… They’re painting me a picture. And it’s just the beginning of what I think could become an elaborate masterpiece.
Downstairs in the mansion is dark, illuminated only by the glow of torch lights as I walk around, observing my surroundings. There are so many rooms here, it’s like a maze. It would take me months to explore them all.
Gliding leisurely into a library, I wind myself around all the many shelves, checking out Blanco’s collection. Many of the books are first editions and rare book collections, kept in pristine condition. Not a speck of dust to be found.
Kent told me that the rest of the staff, including the East Wingdoctors, live on the property, in a small house just outside the rear of the mansion. Like old school maid’s quarters. Deciding to go check it out, I make my way to the nearest backdoor, which leads out onto a veranda. As soon as I step outside, my feet come to a halt.
It’sgorgeousout here…
There’s an entire patio made of elaborate stonework. Plants everywhere, like I’m inside a greenhouse or a botanical garden. Twinkly lights strung up overhead, a setup of chairs and even a barbecue enclosure. This looks like the best place to hang out when the weather is nice. It dawns on me that we’re in the middle of the ocean when I hear nearby crashing waves and feel the sea breeze caressing on my exposed flesh. Smell the salt in the air…
It’s bizarre to be standing next to a giant marble castle, surrounded by plants and exotic flowers, while the knowledge that I’m on a rock miles away from civilization sits in the back of my mind.
Everything about this island is an enigma.
As I wander the pathway through all the vegetation, spotting the house of the staff on my right, I can understand the guards’ need to let loose. I’ve only been here for three days, but I already sense that time moves differently on this island. Being cut off from the rest of the world is something that changes the way you think and feel about your existence, bringing with it a certain level of narcissism. Things likerepercussionsmight fade into the background as you question what it all means.
