I head to the cart and unwrap a sterile syringe. She hasn’t questioned what she saw upstairs—or what transpired between us. She hasn’t pushed…because she knows it’s a sensitive matter. She’s either wary about forcing the subject, or she’s saving it for later. An ace up her sleeve that she can use to unnerve me.
“I’ll bring you a journal,” I say, as I hold the vial up to fill the syringe.
“With a pen?”
“Of course.”
“Aren’t you worried I’ll stab my jugular?”
I turn to face her, and her gaze goes to the syringe in my hand. “I didn’t perceive you as suicidal. Should I be worried?”
Blakely drops the chain, purposeful in her intent to cause a disturbance. “As you studied me, stalked me, know everything about me…I guess you don’t have that to worry about.”
I hold up the syringe and flick the tube, ridding it of any bubbles. I decide to steal her thunder, as it were, and remove the future opportunity to vilify me with her words.
Taking a seat on the stool opposite her, I say, “In my room, every clock was set to the conception of a new idea. A hypothesis. A theory. An experiment. A subject. Anything of importance that I deemed deserving of documentation, I made it tangible by giving it a way to track its own timeline.”
Blakely brings her legs beneath her, chains rattling with her movement. “Well, your little room of horror looks a lot like if Salvador Dali painted his version of a void.”
Amused, I raise an eyebrow. “Your assessment isn’t far off. That void’s name is Musou black. The blackest paint in existence. It consumes light, allowing nothing to reflect off its surface. I wanted only my clocks to exist in the room.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“You believe I know so much about you, therefore I feel you should know something about me in return.”
“Do I have a clock, Alex?”
A hesitant pause, then: “Yes.”
She’s silent for a long beat, her watchful eyes never wavering. “I bet you have a real hard-on for Dali.”
A smile twitches at my lips. “I hope you don’t lose your edge, Blakely.”
She stands suddenly. “Then don’t take it from me, Alex.”
I glance at the syringe in my hand, a heavy weight filling my chest. “I simply have no choice.”
I push off the stool and have her in my grasp. She attempts to wrap the chain around my neck, but I step on the length, locking her wrists by her sides. Hand clamped to the back of her neck, I stare down into her face. Those piercing eyes promise malice.
“I’ll try to be gentle.”
“Go to hell.”
I sink the needle into her arm and watch as her pupils dilate. Blakely becomes docile, her body going slack, and I quickly wrap an arm around her waist to catch her. I carry her to the gurney and lay her on the bedding, removing the chains and securing her cuffs to the side bars.
As I ready the drip bag with anesthesia, she croaks out a word.
“What did you say?” The combination of the drug and the anesthesia is dangerous, and I have to adjust the dose carefully.
When she says nothing more, I clip the bag to the bar and insert the needle into her arm. She’ll be completely under in less than a minute.
“I was thinking about time earlier,” I say, as I place adhesive over the tube on her arm to keep it in place, “and how if only I could send you on a course at the speed of light, I could slow the necrosis in your brain…maybe even revert the process.”
She swallows, straining to keep her eyes open and locked on me.
“That’s absurd, I know. A foolish, whimsical theory that has no basis.” I stroke her hair, my fingers splaying the blond layers over her shoulder. “If there was a way to do this differently…for you, I assure you, I’d try.”
But that’s not our reality. The desire to cure her must outweigh the risk. No matter the pain, no matter the torture for us both.