𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐀 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

XXVII

Janes pov
That night, I couldn't help but stay up all night waiting for footsteps, for a knock, for something from this boy I can't help but miss. I had waited all night, all for nothing. So when night bled into day, and still no whisper of him, a piece of my mind had reserved itself. Hope was truly a torturous thing. It was something that couldn't be trusted, something that could kill you faster than any weapon, and yet, I fell for it. Every time.

I've been in my head too much, I think. I don't want to be in it anymore, and I'd rather be in Henrys. I want to escape into the worlds he talked about, the ones we read about. But what happens when your escapism isn't real? What happens when it's just a disorder? A chemical imbalance in my brain that imagines fake scenarios that I need to believe in to keep sane? I'm scared, and the only person that doesn't frighten me isn't even real.

Sometimes, I think I'm just a girl with millions of stories, millions of other lives I've dreamt of, read of. I've spent hours in other people's shoes, in their lives, worrying about their problems so I wouldn't have to think too hard about mine. Sometimes, I think my mind is just a library; a keeper of realities to drown out my own when I need it. So it's weird, sitting in a room with him. Being so close to him, having all these memories of him he wasn't there for, being so familiar and comfortable with him when he looks at me like I'm an enigma he needs to solve. When I look at him, I see a broken boy who aches for my touch, who plays guitar for me, and reads to me. When he looks at me he sees a Nobel prize, a new experiment.

I'm strapped to a chair in a white room, watching as Henry—Mattheo writes things down in his notebook. It's a normal thing to do, but it makes me want to scream stop. Henry has a photographic memory, and never uses notebooks. To see him write things down to remember them is just another finger pointing at the truth I didn't want to hear. He's different from what I've imagined him to be.

Dr. Marinez searches for my pulse, searches for the best places to put in each syringe. Twelve syringes–three on each arm, three on each leg. Each filled with poison. Maxim increases the dosage, plays around with a few dangerous substances here and there, and Mattheo watches in a seat. His expression is blank, his eyes showing nothing, his body perfectly casual as I pretend to feel no pain.  I try to search for any sign of uncomfort, but I simply can't find any as he takes notes in his notebook.

"Mattheo, are you paying attention?"Maxim calls out to his son whose been silent during this whole procedure.

He hums in response. "May I share my thoughts?"

"You may."

"I think this is stupid." He says, his eyes never leaving mine. "If you're to find a cure, you need to first know the extent of just what it is she can do. You don't just increase dosages to see how much you can take, at risk of killing her." He tsks at Dr. Martinez who stops before adding a new syringe to me. "I don't like my things broken. What use would she be to me then?"

Dr. Martinez frowns. "It's a process, of years of endearment–"

"Kill her, and I'll kill you myself." He says, his tone promising his words.

"And you think you could fasten the process?" His father asks, bored. "Do you seriously believe you'll have better results than her doctor of almost two decades?"

"Yes." Mattheo says conceitedly. Maybe they're not too different.

Maxim watches his son for a second, his look disinterested. After a while, he gives a curt nod to his son and orders Dr. Martinez away. Isabella reluctantly follows after Maxim, and once Maxim and Isabella leave, I watch closely as Henry locks the door and makes his way back to the tray. Say something, I mentally beg. Say anything, do anything. I won't say anything. But he doesn't do anything.