by Trisha Wolfe
You’re sick, Blakely, and I’m going to cure you.
He’s delusional. Or just plain fucking crazy. Either way, he’s playing mad scientist and I’m his patient. What the hell did he do to me while I was under?
As I comb through our conversation, looking for any hint of a way out of this hell hole, one thing stands out.
His sister.
Her murder was gruesome. I saw the news report about a doctor being lobotomized a few years ago, and I recall the killer—but what I need to find out is everything Alex knows about Dr. Mary what’s-her-name.
She’s his reason, his purpose. That means she’s his weakness.
The hollow clang of a door opening reaches my ears, and I take note of the sounds of a metal bar sliding back and the squeak of door hinges. This place might be old. Some warehouse. Which means there could be another way out.
I need to get out of this bed. Before Alex enters the room, I test the restraints. I’m weak and groggy, and the cuffs are latched tightly.
The curtain draws back. Alex is wearing a white lab coat and his glasses and tussled hair, looking every bit his part the mad scientist.
“What did you do to me?” I demand.
He rests a finger over his mouth as he assesses me. “Nothing too invasive yet,” he says, then turns to roll a computer cart closer to the gurney. It’s the yet that I find disturbing.
“I knew you wouldn’t cooperate and hold still for the scan,” he continues, “so I had to put you under. Not ideal for the best results, but we just needed a baseline.”
I notice the crude contraption on the cart then. It looks like some homemade virtual reality device with sensors placed along the inside. “You did a brain scan,” I say.
“Very good. Welcome back, Blakely. I was starting to worry that the ketamine fried too many brain cells.” He types on the keyboard, pausing to follow my line of sight to the instrument. “Let me explain. It would be cumbersome to lug an fMRI machine here. They’re huge, expensive, nonpractical, and really, technology has come a ways since their creation.” He places a hand on the device proudly. “I borrowed this design from a Korean lab that specializes in home brain scanning. For fun.” He raises his eyebrows for emphasis. “It’s all the rage there, scanning brains, discovering what makes us tick.”
As if triggered, he peeks at his pocket watch. “I won’t bore you with too many details, but as you enjoy coding, perhaps you’d like some of the particulars.”
I blink hard, making sure all my senses work. “Seeing as you hooked me up to some brain melting machine, I want all of the particulars.”
He smirks. “I assure you, it’s completely safe. fNIRS, or functional near-infrared spectroscopy, is the way of the future where brain imaging is concerned. The sensors go right over your forehead—” he demonstrates by sweeping the pads of his fingers across my brow “—and emit light into the brain cortex. Completely noninvasive. The sensors then return light, thereby measuring the remaining power. This reading tells us the changes in oxygen levels. When neurons fire, they use oxygen through blood flow. This allows us to map areas of the brain like the amygdala, where emotions are stored.”
“As such, it was imperative that you be right-handed,” he continues, “as the data has confirmed that the left hemisphere of the brain is more susceptible to stimulation.”
“You’re absolutely fascinated by yourself,” I say.
He cocks his head, a slight smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I’m fascinated by you, and what we’ll achieve together.”
“Right. I know how brain scans work,” I say, utter disdain in my voice. “What I want to know is what you plan to do with that information. Build a sex bot? Sell my gray matter on the black market?”
Disappointment registers in the droop of his eyes. There’s still a shadow underneath from the healing bruise, and I realize how damn clever Dr. Alex Chambers really is. How he conned me into believing he was awkward and socially inept—but harmless. A harmless, nerdy scientist who only wanted to spice up his dull life with some thrills.
I was such a conceited tool. The whole time we were together, every second where I was judging him, he was studying me, analyzing my strengths and weaknesses to use them against me.
And I let him.
“Blakely, I was hoping you’ve come to know me better than that.” He drives a hand through his hair, evidently frustrated. “Why would I go through such an arduous identification process simply to…chop you up?” His tone is mocking as he says this, as if selling my body parts would be such a ridiculous stretch compared to simply abducting me.
I adjust myself on the bed. My muscles are becoming stiff from inactivity. “Oh, I don’t know, Alex. Maybe because I don’t know you at all. Everything you let me see and know about you was a lie. You’re an even better manipulator than me.” A hollow laugh escapes. “You’re a fraud, Alex. Which makes you a hypocrite.”
He lowers his head. “You’re right. I did deceive you.” When he looks up, he’s affected genuine remorse in those beautiful pale-blue eyes. “But as you pointed out, you manipulate people in your work to achieve a specific goal. I’m no different. My goal is bigger than me and you, and requires a demanding level of commitment.”
I blow my bangs out of my eyes as I watch him, never blinking through his whole bullshit spiel. “Was your sister just as committed? Is that why she was—”
Alex moves quickly. He has his hand anchored to my jaw, fingers digging into my flesh, before I can finish my sentence. A fierce rage burns in his glare, a side of him I’ve never witnessed before. Interesting.
Jaw clenched, he relaxes his hand, detaching his fingers from my face one at a time. With purposeful movements, he releases me. “Never talk about Mary. Understood?”
I nod slowly.
He straightens his lab coat and resumes his place behind the laptop. “As I was saying, I’m highly committed to this project, and no price is too high to pay to see its completion.”
“Even death?”
The sterile room becomes heavy with his silence. His hesitation answers my question. Before, he said subjects. Plural. There have been others. Alex has taken a life. He’s a killer. That knowledge changes things between us. Where I thought he was simply a bit unhinged, he’s now unhinged and dangerous.
Keeping him calm seems to be the only logical action I can take. What’s the use in begging, in demanding that he let me go? He’s devoted months if not years to his project, and that level of devotion—of delusion—can’t be reasoned with.
My first objective is to get out of this bed. And the way to do that is with trust.
I rub the top of my hand against the scratchy material of the gurney, forcing the tube loose. Alex notices and releases a heavy breath.
“I don’t like being hooked up like a lab rat.”
“You’re not a rat, Blakely. You’re very important, and this is only temporary.” He crosses his arms. “Emotion mapping in the brain is delicate and time-consuming work. Once we have a few scans in place, we’ll start comparing the data to build your emotional map. I’ve already started coding a diagram of your brain that charts your emotional responses. The more honest you are during this process, the better.”
I try to piece together fragments of our first conversation with the contraptions in this room and what he’s saying now. A brain scanner he designed himself. His sister was murdered by a psychopath. I’m here because he identified me as a psychopath. He’s a scientist who studies and cures diseases.
You’re sick, Blakely, and I’m going to cure you.
“I’m thirsty,” I say.
Alex looks away from the screen. “Of course.” He grabs the water bottle on the cart and removes the cap. With the sure hands of a doctor, he places the rim to my mouth and tilts the bottle.
I guzzle as much as he’ll allow before he takes it away with a claim I’ll make myself sick. That was the plan, asshole. I lick my lips, and notice how he purposely averts his gaze away from th
at action.
He may be a devoted scientist, but he’s still a man, and men can be controlled.
“So, I’m here for you to scan the brain of a psychopath.” I reason out loud. “You want to understand…something about how the psychopathic brain works.” I glance around the room and find a door on the other side of the parted curtain. “You could’ve just asked me, Alex. For a fee, I probably would’ve let you scan my brain until your warped little scientist heart was content.”
He sets the water bottle down and removes his glasses. All pretense is dropped as a severe expression hardens his features. “Just…be patient, Blakely.” He turns toward his laptop and resumes typing.
Code and diagrams appear on one of the large monitors along the wall. The clack clack clack crawls under my skin.
“You can’t keep me chained to a gurney all the time,” I say, testing him. I need to suss out just how long he plans to hold me here. “I’ll need bathroom breaks. I’ll have to eat. Shower. Unless you plan to starve me to death or let me rot in this damn bed.”
“You will not rot, nor will you starve. That would defeat the whole purpose.”
I sink my teeth into my lip so hard I draw blood. I lick the metallic tang away. “There you go with your big purpose again. Just what the hell is your purpose, Alex? Why am I here? Just rip the fucking Band-Aid off, you narcissistic little earwig.”
He pushes the stool away from the cart and walks out of the room. Maybe he didn’t like the narcissist comment, or he’s growing tired of my questions. Good. Either way, the clacking has ceased and I close my eyes to relish the quiet.
A few moments pass and then Alex returns to the room wheeling in an archaic-looking instrument that makes my stomach bottom out.
“What the hell is that?” My voice has lost its edge.
He wheels the metal box to the end of the gurney and removes the top casing, then holds a pair of paddles aloft. “Emotion mapping is only phase one of our time together. Electroconvulsive therapy, otherwise known as electroshock, forms a cornerstone of the treatment.”
I huff a scathing breath at the absurdity. “This is insane. Don’t you think that I’ve researched psychopathy before? Listen to me, Alex. I know what I am. I’ve read all the literature, did all the web searches, and there is no cure.”
He starts to say more, and I stop him. “No. Hear me, Alex. There is no cure for psychopaths,” I stress. “What happened to your sister was a terrible tragedy. But I’m not that man. Hell, most psychopaths are not killers. You have to know this.”
He lays the paddles on top of the device. “I do know this. That’s not why we’re here. I’m not seeking vengeance. I understand you are not violent. I’m not delusional. The truth of the matter is, if Grayson Sullivan would’ve been identified early on, possibly in his adolescence, and given a treatment…then my sister might still be alive.” He walks around the bed and touches my hand. This time I recoil away.
“So you’re a humanitarian,” I say, sarcasm thick in my tone. “Kidnapping unwilling victims to undergo unethical and depraved experiments for the greater good.”
He sinks his hands into his coat pockets. “It’s the limit of time, Blakely. What I have to accomplish can’t wait for the rest of the world to approve.” He groans and takes a few steps away. “There has been no definitive research performed on psychopaths to prove or disprove theories,” he says. “On the eve of the industrial revolution, progress with the mind was stunted. Mass production took the forefront while humanitarians cited experiments on psych patients was cruel and inhuman.”
I obviously touched on a nerve with the humanitarian comment. He’s getting worked up, talking faster, pacing. “Alex—” I try, but he doesn’t hear me.
“The amygdala—” he points to his forehead “—facilitates emotional processing. And yet, very few studies have incorporated electrical stimulation of the amygdala to assess stimulation-elicited biological and emotional responses.” He laughs manically. “No one even knows the result. No one has tested it alongside emotional mapping to measure the outcome.”
While he’s lost in his own crazed rant, I bring the leather cuff to my mouth and try to loosen the strap. I will chew my way out of this insane asylum if I have to.
“Initially, the instruments for electroshock were all positively antediluvian in design, so of course that had to be ruled as inhumane. But the foundation was there. It just needed to be tweaked, tested…”
His attention finds me, and I halt all movement. Alex stalks closer to the side of the gurney where he peers down. He takes my wrist, checks the strap, then places my hand on the bed, his manner suddenly so cool it’s unnerving.
As he leans in close, he says, “Do you know how the process of decay works? It’s very insightful. From birth, our bodies are designed to start breaking down. From the very moment we enter this world, our brains begin to die. Every second, thirty-two million neurons expire. That’s one-point-nine million in a minute.”
“Alex…you’re scaring me.”
His smile is disarming. “Oh, I doubt that. But how amazing would it be if I could make you truly feel terror?”
He wrenches a strap out from underneath the gurney and latches it around my chest and arms, securing me to the bed.
Shit. “Look, I’m sorry I Tasered you. But this is way too extreme for payback. We can find another way, Alex. I promise. I’ll help you….”
He ignores my plea. “This is for your protection,” he says, as he straps me to the gurney, “so you don’t inadvertently harm yourself.”
I struggle against the binding and am able to free one hand. I flail wildly, trying to connect with his face, as he backs away from my swing. With deft movements, Alex expertly blocks my attack and whips my arm around his in a firm hold that prevents me from moving.
My eyes widen as I lock gazes with him. “Son of a bitch,” I whisper. He knows martial arts, and he’s good. “What a liar you are,” I say, as I look at the bruise under his eye, the one he could have apparently prevented.
“Jujitsu. Trained since I was eleven.” As he latches the strap back into place, this time preventing me from escaping, he says, “You only saw what you wanted to see, Blakely. I didn’t have to try too hard to deceive you. Let that be a lesson.”
I lie helpless as I watch him systematically detach the tubes from my arms, then he lifts my gown to remove the catheter. My wrists are freed from the cuffs, all metal removed, and I know what is about to happen next. I can’t let it—but I’m powerless to stop it.
“I’ll get out of here,” I say, my teeth gritted. “And when I do, Alex, I will hunt you down. I will end you. We can stop this right now—”
He flips a switch on the electroshock device and my ears hum with the charge. “You have a disease, Blakely. The necrotic matter in your mind needs to be removed so healthy cells can form. That’s what I do, who I am. I’m going to help you get healthy. I’m going to open up the dead and dormant pathways of your brain so you can feel.”
My gaze darts from his face to his finger poised on the switch. The loss of control over my situation is almost as painful as the dread encasing me as I wait for him to flip that button.
I swallow to moisten my dry throat. “You’re accusing me of being an unfeeling creature,” I say, tone low, solemn. “And yes, that’s true. I don’t feel in the same capacity the way you do. But I’m not the one with a torture device in his hands, Alex. I’ve never purposely hurt anyone. You’re making a conscious choice to harm me.”
Alex doesn’t wince. No show of emotion that my speech affects him. His determination to his project overpowers any rational thought.
“You claim I’m sick…but this, what you’re willing to do, that makes you the sick one, Alex.”
He inhales deeply and rolls his shoulders back, chin lifted high in defiance and resolution. With quick, unflinching movements, he shoves a plastic mouth guard into my mouth and straps the paddles to my temples.
“You will thank me one day
, Blakely.”
Then he flips the switch.
16
Defunct
Alex
Journal entry:
Subject 6 has become lethargic over the course of the first week.
I admit, I was impulsive and rash with the first round of electroconvulsive therapy. I hadn’t yet finished the subject’s emotional map. I hadn’t yet formed a complete hypothesis for her treatment. I allowed the subject to affect me, and years of disappointment coupled with her inability to feel that severe disappointment with my failure…
I halt writing, pen hovering over the journal page, as I stare at the streaming river. Dense pine trees block any wind, the basin a void of sound and life. The forest is muted by my thoughts as I search for the right word. There is no way to varnish or excuse my behavior. Blakely wounded me, and I wanted to wound her back. I wanted her to feel so desperately, it became a demand that had to be answered.
For a brief moment, I cracked, revealing the delicate fractures that have splintered me during the course of this experiment. I was irresponsible, childish. I won’t allow that to happen again with this subject. From the first moment I saw her, I knew she’d be a challenge, but she’s perfect in that challenge—a test I must succeed at. I simply have to reevaluate my reactions to her. Fortify my defenses. Be stronger.
I whisper a curse into the crisp air, my breath fogging the evening. Blakely, Blakely…
She’s the spark to my fuse.
A fire lit down deep in the bowels of my torment and self-degradation.
Her soulless, penetrating eyes strip me of every pretentious façade; she sees down to my stained marrow. And there’s a part of me that yearns for it, to be cleansed by her fire.
I force the torturous thought from my head and try again to form a cohesive thought.