Born, Darkly (Darkly, Madly 1)

“If you ask me…waste of money. Could’ve just got it from the infirmary.” He continues to mumble to himself as he walks off.

As soon as the lights dim, I unwrap the paper bag packaging. A small baggie within holds three large, white pills. I read the imprint with a smile. Penicillin.

Bringing the meds along for the ride won’t be easy. I open the empty puzzle box and peel back the cardboard along the side, then seal the pills inside. I dread knowing where I’ll have to stow the pills when the time comes.

Before I lose the orange glow of the overhead lights, I yank off my thermal and kneel before a handheld mirror propped on the table. I angle my back to see the fresh ink between my shoulder blades.

The outline was the hardest part; making sure the curves align, that the lines are even. I dig out the ink and shiv from the hollow compartment at the base of my cot. Not an easy feat, keeping the guards ignorant of contraband. Only as long as my index finger, the splinter of a bench I picked up in the yard is used as the handle for the thin, sharp prongs I managed to wrangle from the kitchen. Another perk from my gen pop connection.

I use the needle-like points to shade in the black ink. Dip and puncture. Repeat. It’s a tedious process, but the results are worth the effort. I envision her hand—the ink that she tries so hard to conceal—as I close in the negative space.

Then after tiresome repetition, the most vital element is layered within the shading. I can’t bring the model with me, but I can take the measurements and specs. The formula. All the critical details needed to be planned ahead. Supplies. Check list of items. Plan of execution.

And the most fundamental of all: London.

Without her, this will fail.

My hand trembles, anticipation fueling my adrenaline.

London claims I’m incapable of feeling—that I’m a psychopath with no empathy.

I don’t disagree with her assessment.

There are different types of psychopaths, however. And what she fails to acknowledge—like so many of her colleagues—is that a disempathetic type can and does exist.

I’m the proof.

“Constricted circle of empathy” is how it’s defined, but easiest understood in comparison to a dead tree. Imagine if the tree had every limb severed. This tree has been in the dark all its life, slowly dying, decaying, until the sun shines down on it and a tiny sprig bursts free. The stem reaches for the light, growing toward the only sunshine its ever known.

One living limb on an otherwise dead tree.

London is the sunlight, and that new limb the feelings I’m only able to feel for her.

Love is difficult for my kind, but not impossible.

With every break of my skin, every stain that inks my flesh, I go against the grain of my nature to prove this to her. Like so many untraveled highways, the love and empathy road has been an infrequent path for the neurons in my mind. If you don’t nurture a thing, it dies. I was born with the ability, like every other human is born with the ability to feel, empathize, love—only I was never required to exercise these emotions. They’re weak and neglected.

Idle hands are the devil’s playground…and all that entails.

I smile to myself.

Then there was her. Synapses fired, awakening a forgotten, dormant road. I’ve never felt any connection to a single person…

Until her.

I covet this rarity. Anxious to nurture this dark little seed she planted in my soul. My own design of love may be a twisted creature, but that creature is hungry and demands to be fed.

13

Lay Bare

London

I’ve unpacked every skirt from my suitcase. A pile of black and gray slacks litter my bed as I try to unearth a wardrobe that won’t tempt me, or Grayson, to think about today’s session.

A mock laugh falls from my lips. I toss a pair of old slacks into the open luggage. Session. So that’s what I’m calling it. Allowing a patient—a very sick patient—to maul me in my therapy room.

I zip the case closed with a curse.