SUSY Asylum

by Michael Pierce

  “Desiree,” I said again.

  Her head slightly turned to the sound of my voice, but I didn’t know how clearly she was hearing me beneath the sensory deprivation mask.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” she said between sudden noticeable sobs.

  “I won’t let him touch you,” her mirror said and kissed her on the side of the head. “Stay back! I don’t want to h—”

  “Hurt me?” I laughed. “You can’t and you know it.” I suppressed the shock of seeing Desiree, again and in her horrific current state, and let the confidence that I had gained from Nero return.

  “You’re one of them, aren’t you?” She hugged Desiree tighter—enough so that Desiree began to thrash from her crushing grip.

  “Please!” Desiree cried.

  “Stop, Mirror!” I yelled. “You’re hurting her!”

  “I will never relinquish her!” Desiree’s mirror said, rocking and crushing her living doll.

  Desiree’s legs kicked the wall and floor, unable to fight much without the use of her arms. With the extension of her naked legs, I noticed a small tube sticking out of her inner right thigh. It reached a few inches and was cutoff and capped.

  “You’re hurting her!” I advanced on the beautiful and feral mirror, snatching one arm and yanking it free of its prey.

  Desiree’s mirror continued to protest, rewrapping her arm around Desiree’s torso like a snake. But the look in her eyes as she gazed up at me expressed more than fear. It expressed defeat.

  I continued to pull her arm, and as I did, the other one was losing its grip on Desiree. Though she was prepared to drag Desiree with her, who was crying out from her drained state, compounded by the disorientation of not being able to see what was happening around her. She had no idea that there was someone actually here fighting for her.

  I tugged the mirror with all the strength I had and her other hand finally tore free from Desiree. The mirror soared through the air, over the bed, and landed on the dark hardwood floor with a groan and echoing thud.

  I leapt over the bed before she could recover. While she scrambled to her knees, I shoved her headfirst into the nightstand. The wood split and splintered, and the nightstand skidded back and slammed against the wall. She collapsed on the floor again, blood pouring from a gash on her forehead. One of the rolling tracks disconnected from the rest of the nightstand and the drawer teetered, only being held up by one side. Tubes, needles, and a pair of handcuffs fell out and onto the floor.

  I kicked her in the ribs while she lay feebly on the floor, trying to remember she wasn’t a woman, but a monster. She wasn’t Desiree, but her attacker. And with that thought, I kicked her again.

  “Please, stop.” The mirror slowly sat up and leaned against the side of the bed, one arm around her stomach and the other propped up in front of her face in a gesture of surrender. “You have to let me keep her. I need her,” she cried.

  A metal post on wheels with an empty blood bag hanging from a hook and a small electronic box attached at its center was standing by the closet doors. I looked down at the splintered nightstand, at the spilled needles and tubes in a ghastly pile. My fury boiled over just thinking of what this monster had done to Desiree—what Nero had done to me.

  “You’re going to give it back,” I said softly.

  She stared up at me with a blank expression, the blood from her gash trailing down between her eyes and over the bridge of her nose.

  “What you took—what you stole from Desiree—you’re going to give it all back.”

  The mirror lunged at me from her seated position with nails like razors, looking all the more menacing with the blood dripping down onto her teeth.

  I jumped back, but not out of reach for her to slap one end of the handcuffs on my wrist. Still pulling away, I hit the closet door, bringing her with me. She roared like a beast and clamped the other cuff on my free wrist. Her lips curled up in a sinister victorious grin—having no idea what was about to happen next.

  It took only one fluid maneuver to slide my wrists through the handcuffs and clamp them down on her wrists. I whirled her around and she screamed when she realized she’d been shackled, with me miraculously freed. She struggled to escape my grip, to escape the hold of the handcuffs, and fell to her knees when I shoved her toward the bed. I forced her arms to extend toward the wooden bedpost and the chain between her hands cut through the wood like passing through water. The mirror found herself bound to the bed with no means of escape.

  “It’s time to give back, Mirror,” I whispered in her ear.

  “You can’t do this!” she cried and pounded the chain against the wood, but it did little more than make noise. “You can’t take her from me! She’s mine!”

  I left her to her frenzy and rolled the post over to Desiree’s side of the room, on the other side of the bed from where the mirror thrashed. I connected the needles to the tubes, and the tubes to the blood bag.

  It was heart-wrenching to see Desiree with how she was dressed and bound, witnessing the horrific depravity that no one should ever have to endure. I gently touched her leg as she lay slumped against the wall. She barely stirred, hovering in a purgatory between consciousness and unconsciousness. I remembered the horrific feeling well, so well in fact that it left an acrid taste in my mouth.

  “I’m here,” I said softly, not surprised by her lack of reaction. The words were more for me at this point than for her.

  I looked down at her bare legs, at the short capped tube sticking out of her thigh. There was surgical tape crisscrossed around the hole in her leg. The tube was a catheter—what her mirror had been using to drain her. I removed the cap and inserted the needle, but it just sat in the tube, not really connecting to anything. I removed it and looked around. There had to be a tube with a special connection for the catheter.

  “Where’s the correct tube?” I demanded from Desiree’s bound mirror.

  She spat at me.

  I checked the remaining pile of tubes and the bucket in the bathroom sink, both places without any luck. I marched back and forth around the room and let out a desperate cry of frustration. The mirror smiled at my obvious inner struggle and continued to pull on her chain. I knew I needed to act, but I hated the thought of sticking Desiree with a needle—even though on some level I knew I would’ve had to do that all along.

  I went back to the original tube and needle, kneeling beside Desiree’s huddled body, holding the needle next to her bare skin. I cringed, touched the skin of her leg with the tip, and pulled back.

  “Argh!” I yelled and quickly plunged it into her flesh.

  She winced—and shivered—and sobbed.

  I nearly cried myself, but I needed to keep moving, hearing Desiree’s mirror crashing against the bedpost. It wouldn’t last long.

  Extending the other tube to its max just barely reached the mirror, and I stuck the other needle into a porcelain outstretched forearm. She yelled and squirmed as I turned on the machine, pulling blood from her arm and into the tube.

  I was just about to remove Desiree’s mask when the mirror broke free from the headboard. The wood cracked and splintered, and she ripped the bedpost away from the rest of the headboard. The metal post holding the blood bag was thrown with her tumbling body, and I was afraid the tube or needle would be wrenched free.

  I cleared the bed with a single jump and tackled her as she attempted to get to her feet, both of us crashing to the floor. She belligerently clawed at my face with her bound hands. I caught her forearms before she could hit me, straddled her, and forced her arms to the ground. Leaning forward to keep her restless arms down—to keep the tube or needle from pulling free—my face was only inches from hers.

  She smiled at me. Other than the blood on her face, she appeared sweet and innocent for a moment.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this,” she said.

  “This is the only way.”

  “Release me!” The mirror spat at me and I had to suppress the urge to wipe my face, spi
ttle and blood inching down over my lips.

  I waited silently for her body to weaken as the blood drained from her body to nourish Desiree. When I felt her arms relax, I slowly let go and they remained on the ground, stretched above her head. She was still gazing up at me, but the anger and passion were fading.

  I stepped off her and approached Desiree, who was beginning to struggle with her restraints, her arms still wrapped tightly around her body. I started by unzipping the mask, trying to be careful not to yank out her hair in the teeth of the zipper. And when I removed it from her face, I welled up, overwhelmed by emotion with the confirmation that it was really her. I’d been through Hell and back to find her, and here she was finally sitting before me.

  Desiree instantly squeezed her eyes shut at the burst of light, her eyes also tearing.

  “Desiree,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time, but I couldn’t think of anything else.

  She squinted and slowly let in more light as my face came into focus. Her expression displayed disbelief and skepticism, and then turned to fear.

  “Oliver, is that really you?” Her voice was cracked and hoarse.

  “It’s really me,” I answered and advanced to hug her, but she recoiled against the wall.

  “How can I be sure?”

  “On the first morning I met you, I had forgotten my pen and you handed me yours—a purple one and you said—”

  “I like purple,” she said, completing my sentence. “You really came for me.” Her tears were no longer from the light.

  “I would have spent my whole life looking for you.” This time when I went to hug her, she closed her wet eyes and laid her head against my chest.

  After a brief carefree moment, I helped her maneuver so I could unbuckle her collar and arms. They dropped beside her as dead weight. She finally began to take in the room she had been held in for all this time, then at the fallen metal post, leaning against the bed with one tube extending out of sight and another…Desiree’s eyes followed the second tube from the blood bag down to her leg.

  Desiree’s eyes widened at the sound of her mirror groaning on the far side of the bed, reminding her that we were still not alone, still not safe.

  “Oliver, what are you doing?” she gasped. “Take this needle out of me!” She fought to find her hands in the straightjacket, but they were lost in the long sleeves, preventing her from grabbing anything.

  “I’m making you well.”

  “Get the needle out of me!” Her legs shook with a combination of anger and fear.

  I gently removed the tape and needle from her leg and righted the metal post from its leaning position. The body lying on the far side of the room was nearly still. I shut down the machine and turned back to Desiree.

  “How do you feel?” I asked.

  “Gross,” she said simply, and I saw the hint of a smile on her chapped lips—the Desiree I knew and loved.

  “Well, you look beautiful,” I said, and I meant it.

  Her damp and oily hair clung to her face, with her skin red and peeling from the mask. Her bare legs were covered in scrapes and bruises, and the catheter protruded out of her inner thigh. But despite all that, she looked beautiful and I could have looked at her forever.

  “Can you stand?”

  Instead of answering, she clambered to her feet, wobbly at first like drunk Anna in heels, and then steadied as she found her balance.

  Anna. In that moment, I hated myself for connecting that imagery.

  “I guess I can—are you all right?” Desiree asked. “You look like you just saw something terrible. Do I look that bad?”

  I shook my head, half answering Desiree and half trying to shake the horrible imagery of Anna out of my head.

  “I said you looked beautiful. I meant it.” I smiled.

  She mirrored my smile and dropped her gaze to the floor, which traveled to the slowly breathing body lying across the room. Her smile faded and her eyes darted back to me.

  “Can you help me with this? Have you seen my clothes around here somewhere?” Desiree glanced around the room.

  “I’m sure we’ll find you something,” I said as I approached her and unlatched the buckles down the back of her straightjacket, ending with the buckle for the strap that stretched between her legs. “I’m trying my best not to touch your butt.”

  “I appreciate that,” Desiree laughed, and it was the sweetest sound I could imagine.

  The back of the straightjacket hung open like a hospital gown, revealing that Desiree was dressed only in her underwear beneath.

  She shimmied the white leather jacket to the ground and expelled a loud sigh. Turning around to face me, she made no effort to cover up her exposed body. I glanced at her purple bra and black panties no matter how much I scolded myself for doing so. Her arms were bruised almost as much as her legs, as well as painful looking discoloration around her ribs.

  The mirror on the floor grunted and Desiree quickly stepped back. I looked over and she was pulling at her handcuffs, but they seemed secure—for now.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

  “I can’t walk out of here like this,” Desiree said, gesturing to her lack of clothes. “My stuff has to be around her somewhere.”

  “We’ll find you some.”

  As I walked past her, she grabbed my arm.

  “How can I ever thank you enough?” And instead of allowing me to answer, she leaned in, pushed up on her toes, and kissed me on the cheek. She brought her face back only a few inches, looking me in the eyes and biting her lower lip. “I still feel gross.”

  “You still look beautiful,” I said and returned her kiss on the lips. I carefully placed my hands on her bare sides, trying to be mindful of her bruises. She brought her hands up to my neck. “Especially dressed like this.”

  “Don’t get used to it.” She smirked.

  I found Desiree some stone-washed jeans and a sexy button down top, which I thought she was going to fight me on. She took them eagerly and dressed too fast for my taste. The cotton shirt only had buttons halfway up and she didn’t notice until she ran out.

  “Really?” she complained, but didn’t attempt to negotiate an exchange.

  The mirror was lying on the floor only a few feet away and she watched us like a caged animal. She didn’t attempt to get up—hopefully she was still too weak—but she rhythmically yanked on the chain between her wrists, more for effect than an attempt to escape. She stared and pulled; stared and pulled. And Desiree couldn’t look at the bloodied face for more than a few seconds before diverting her gaze.

  “I need to find my jeans,” she said, gazing around the room.

  “You’re wearing jeans,” I answered.

  “I know, but I need to find my jeans.”

  I turned to the mirror. “Where are they?”

  She continued to stare me straight in the eyes, but she refused to answer.

  “Mirror, I asked you a question!” I commanded.

  She pulled on her chain again, unflinching, but still remaining silent.

  I had a heavy urge to kick her in the side again, but I figured Desiree wouldn’t react well to that kind of interrogation. I stormed out of the bedroom instead and came back with a pair of jeans I found strewn over the back of the couch.

  “Are these yours?” I asked, holding them up.

  Desiree eagerly took them and searched the pockets.

  “Where is it?” Her face flushed. She turned to the mirror and addressed her for the first time since she’d been freed. “Where is it, Reid?”

  “The letter from your boyfriend?” Reid smiled sadistically from the floor. “I’ve got it safe.”

  “I want it back.”

  “It’s safe.”

  “I need it back!” Desiree cried and tears brimmed around her eyes.

  I didn’t wait for a response or a signal from Desiree, marched up to Reid, and kicked her in the kidney—if mirrors even had kidneys. She groaned, coughed, and spit blood on my polished dres
s shoe.

  “I can do this all day,” I said, kneeling down beside her. I expected to hear Desiree say something behind me in protest, but she didn’t.

  “Right pocket,” she said.

  I stuffed my hand into her front right jeans pocket, but it was empty. I gave her an unamused glare.

  “Left pocket,” she corrected.

  I searched her left pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and held it over my head. Desiree snatched it from behind me.

  “You can go through my other pockets, too,” Reid said with an overly sweet smile. But seeing the beautiful smile on her bloodied face sent a shudder though my body. “I may be hiding something else.”

  I stood up and stepped back.

  “Is it what you were looking for?” I asked over my shoulder.

  “Yeah,” Desiree said.

  “It’s so sad.” Reid continued to smile, stare, and pull on her chain.

  After all that had happened in the symmetric plane, I was finally reminded of the House of Mirrors at the fair. Reid’s sweet and sinister gaze looked exactly like the figure that had lunged at Desiree in the long hallway. Darius and I had laughed at the time, but it wasn’t funny now.

  Desiree stuffed the paper in her pocket. I grabbed Frolics from the dresser, causing Desiree to give me a quizzical look.

  “It’s a long story,” I said, and we left the bedroom.

  The television was on in the living room, but I ignored it, walking straight for the door. We needed to get out of here. But I froze at the sound of a familiar voice.

  “What is it?” Desiree asked as I turned and walked back to the television.

  I stared at the gorgeous woman with glistening white hair holding a press conference, talking more about Kafka’s request for privacy during his time of mourning.

  “Is she saying what I think she’s saying?” Desiree asked, standing a few feet behind me. “Who is she?”

  “Alexandria Lorne,” I said coldly. “And yes.”

  “Kafka’s alive?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a long pause as we stared at the screen.

  “You don’t sound surprised,” Desiree said.