by Lime Craven
Observe the scissors left out on the cheap plywood desk at that awkward angle; anyone could grab them at any time. Stupid place to leave them. And she's meant to be smart?
Observe the blocked exit points at the window or the fire door; both the ledge and floor are piled high with boxes, files, and pot plants that are meant to help me relax. Nothing in here helps me to relax. Not even the pills she's been trying to stuff me with to get rid of the nightmares.
Good old Doctor Yao. At least she tries. Kudos to her for rocking that pixie cut, too—she's got the bone structure.
"You've come a long way since I first saw you," she says with a kind smile. "I know things were bad then, but I want you to appreciate all the progress you've made. It's quite an achievement."
"I've been doing the breathing exercises," I tell her. "They really help."
"And the night terrors? All gone?"
"For about two months, now."
Lies. I still have them; they skulk in at midnight to haunt me. I regularly wake with a whimper, hunched and spat out on the tongue of a wraith.
Rachel on the floor, her legs in a knot and half of her face just...missing.
Aeron, a knife in his hand, my skin warm and trembling beneath it.
Aeron, a slow pool of scarlet seeping from his belly. He spilled my blood; I spilled his. I'm an engineer. We like symmetry.
I background checked the fuck out of you, Miss OCD. I suppose he didn't pay too much attention to my previous addresses. I don't share my mother's surname—a nasty divorce put paid to that—but that address should have given it all away. Yet it didn't.
Serendipity dropped me in his lap, and serendipity saved me.
I smile.
"I want you to know that you can come back to me at any time," she says. There's a warmth in her eyes that makes me want to hug her. The Victim Look—it's like lubricant. It helps with so many things. "You had a very unfortunate accident, but you have to accept that it wasn't your fault."
"I know," I say quietly. "I know."
The charges were dropped.
People who have money can get away with anything.
"Now take my card, and in the nicest possible way," she adds, "I hope I never see you again."
I manage a little laugh. "Me too. Thanks, Dr Yao. You've been amazing."
"I do my best."
And she does. She sees a confident young woman with a persuasive English accent; a clever girl with a Harvard education and an unusual, impressive job. She sees an enviable future. The world at my feet. She doesn't see a silent witness...but then nobody ever does.
Outside Dr Yao's downtown office, there's a little garden where she grows lilies and peonies. They're fat with fresh petals at this time of year, baked by sunshine and still damp with dew. The scent reminds me of my Grandmother's garden back in Dorset—spring grass, potent pollen, chubby English bees. Eventually, the same sun that kissed these flowers to blooming will dry them out, and they'll falter. Wither. Die.
We must not be so hard on the flowers. All of us, we pretend we're clever, but we grow toward the things that hurt us whether we notice or not. We feel special. We might even feel safe. Reach for the stars, they tell us...yet to do that, we must reach for the dark.
You must understand that I tried not to love him. I know I shouldn't, but I can't help what I want. And his wisdom, it makes sense to me. Beautiful logic. It lends me power in a world that has failed.
Aeron always waits for me on the bench in the garden. Dr Yao was his idea when the nightmares started; he thought it wise, after the accident, that I was visibly getting help. And he was right, the way he almost always is...I do feel better. Lighter. Even if there are things that will never go away.
He tells me that he is not sorry. But I think, at least for Tuija, that he is.
"Leo." Aeron stands to greet me, brushing himself down. "Ready to go?"
Though he's made an excellent recovery, he gets tired sometimes. If you look closely, there's a slight dip on his right side when he walks too fast or runs. He'll tell you that it's all about survival of the fittest, but me? I think serendipity saved him, the same way it saved me. None of it matters when he opens his arms, pulls me against him, and bestows me with that blinder of a grin. He doesn't have dimples, he has planets—I've given up struggling in their gravitational pull.
I stand on tiptoe to wrap my arms around his neck and kiss the tip of his earlobe. "All sorted."
"Good girl," he murmurs, his mouth an inch from mine.
I close the space. Perhaps the space closes itself. I was always drawn to him, and now I'm nothing but a foregone conclusion; in Aeron Lore's arms, it is a dangerous and blissful thing to be. I bear the scars to prove it—old and newborn, carved and sliced. He kisses me with lips and knives, and for seconds, I forget the dark things, the stars I reached for and the scars I found in their place. They're just flashes of shadow in the light.
"I love you," I tell him.
"I love you too, sweetheart." He says it with a confidence that I've never heard from a man. He told me once that it was a special kind of love—a mongrel of a thing born from desire and obsession, sealed shut like the tightest scar. "And I'm so proud of you," he adds.
"Why's that?"
He slides a hand up beneath my sweater, following the path of my spine until he settles on my latest dressing. Shivers follow, waking goose bumps on my skin. "Dr Yao in there."
"Oh?" I tug his waistband gently. I like to put my fingers beneath it, to feel hot flesh swell for me. "How come?"
He draws me up. His voice is a lush, ripe whisper. "You fool that bitch and you can fool anyone."
Author's Note
If you got this far...thank you, thank you, thank you. You have no idea what it means to me that you read my whole book.
I started writing SOCIOPATH because I wanted to explore a unique perspective for an anti-hero. Along the way, I did a lot of research on Aeron's 'condition.' Some of you might be interested in that, so in a nutshell, here's what I learned:
1) Not all professionals agree on the diagnostic criteria for sociopathy, but ultimately, it refers to a lack of conscience or empathy. This doesn't make sociopaths inherently evil, but it does kinda open the gate for it a lot wider...
2) Many professionals consider the terms sociopath, psychopath and anti-social personality disorder to be interchangeable. Some say that "sociopath" was only coined because people misinterpreted "psychopath" to mean "psychotic," which it doesn't. In other words...sociopaths, clinically, are "sane." They just have a rather uninhibited way of looking at the world.
This book wouldn't be possible without the support of my lovely writer friends, or my editor, or my long-suffering family and partner. You all know who you are; I appreciate your patience and understanding more than I can say.
I'd also like to thank Amber at bookbeautiful.com for creating the gorgeous cover, and the ladies at Bare Naked Words for their promotional efforts. If you helped with the cover reveal, review tour or have simply told a friend about SOCIOPATH, you're awesome. Thank you from the bottom of my perverted little heart.
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Lime Craven is an author of dark romantic fiction. She lives in Birmingham, UK, with her young daughter, and hopes one day to own a small dog with a ridiculous name. Maybe called Bruce. Bruce Craven? Let's put that on the list...
"I like dysfunction. Broken people who can't fix each other, but fit together because they're missing the same pieces. One of my favourite songs declares, "Take the sinner down to feed desire," and that's my MO. I write psychological thrillers with strong elements of dark romance.
"I love anti-heroes and anti-heroines. Characters who don't just accept their faults, but downright exploit them. No nice boys. No shame. Mindfuckery for all."
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