Patient B-2

Chapter Twenty-Five: Aren

 The room is shrouded in darkness, the dim lights casting eerie shadows that dance across the stained cement walls. Whether it's the faint illumination or the haze of drugs clouding my vision, I can't discern. Distinct voices of women swirl around me, but my ears seem deaf to their chatter. My body feels heavy and lethargic, slumped against an old couch with my head resting on the cushions, the cool touch of the floor against my skin a stark contrast to the warmth of the room. The rug beneath me feels coarse against my skin, its synthetic material leaving indentations from the prolonged pressure of kneeling.

 I feel a barely perceptible, featherlight touch against my scalp, likely one of the women's. But I lack the energy to confirm it. She rubs at my scalp, playing with my hair in almost a soothing manner.

 In my mind, I entertain the illusion that it's Avalyn. I pretend as if it were her hand, her fingers playing with my hair in a comforting rhythm. Perhaps she's lost in a book, her hand instinctively reaching out with the need to touch me. It's a comforting thought, albeit a false one. Here, in this bleak reality, you can't pretend, at least, not for long.

 The gesture from the older woman would be perceived as tender, loving even, if she hadn't just forced herself on me only a few minutes prior. Or at least, she tried to before she got fed up with the lack of response down there. Once she realized that there was no way to pretend that I could tolerate it, she simply gave up and forced me onto my knees before her. She didn't bother with the pretense of my enjoyment, especially when she couldn't see my face. At that moment, I should have fought back and sunk my teeth into her skin. The strength to resist almost surfaced within me, but as always, I succumbed, allowing it to happen without protest.

 It leaves me consumed by a sense of shame, a gnawing feeling of weakness that I struggle to shake off. Despite my rational understanding that I'm not to blame for the situation I find myself in, the insidious voice of self-doubt continues to plague me relentlessly. These thoughts torment me incessantly, invading every moment of peace and robbing me of any semblance of tranquility. I fear they will never relent, that I'll be forever trapped in this cycle of self-recrimination.

 My mind is veiled in a dense fog, and my eyelids droop heavily under the relentless weight of exhaustion. Memories of being escorted down to the basement and being subjected to another round of drugs barely register in my consciousness. The opulent crowds of people blur together in my mind, their faces and surroundings almost feeling like fragments of a dream. Doubt snakes its way into my thoughts, casting shadows of uncertainty over my recollections. I can't shake the feeling that perhaps I imagined everything I witnessed earlier.

 But it had to be real. I cling to the certainty of what I saw, despite the haze of drugs clouding my mind. I couldn't have conjured her up in my altered state. She appeared before me just as she did the last time I saw her— nearly two hundred years ago. Yet, there were changes, subtle shifts in her demeanor like the way she carried herself.

 My sister, always radiating confidence, yet I knew what she tried to hide— her fear. As children, I glimpsed it beneath her facade. No matter how high she held her head, the haunted look in her eyes whenever our father— her father— made a demand was unmistakable.

 When I first realized that the man who raised me wasn't my biological father, it sparked a profound sense of disconnection. To even say he raised me would be an exaggeration; he was merely a presence I encountered sporadically, a figure I dreaded seeing. In my mind, he became solely Idalia's father, not mine. His treatment never fostered a father-son bond, making detachment effortless, especially when there was no initial connection to sever. Fear was the sole emotion I harbored for the man. I'm certain my sister shared similar sentiments. However, tonight, she exhibited an unusual absence of fear.