Page 15 of Sick Bargain

“Not mine, no.” Her eyes are closed now, and someone, probably Menace or Monster, because they’re both filthy fuckers, snapped her neck back into place and glued her mouth shut.

“Whose?” he asks, stepping up next to me.

When I look at her, I see him. The physical response is what shocks me. I don’t try to cover my erection because it’s fascinating me more than anything. I’m not typically one to get aroused because of a dead body, but then again, it’s not really the body that’s doing it for me.

“Necrophilia isn’t you, Krypt. What’s going on?” Director asks. “You’ve been more compulsive lately. Talk to me.”

Why? No one ever listens.

I like Director. He’s good to all of us, brought the ten of us together, and put up with a lot of bullshit from us ever since we reached this level of authority within Vile House. Ever since we became the ten.

When we reach a certain level, we’re tested based on our training after initiation. I was loaded down with so many secrets and bits of information from the leaders, literally bursting at the seams with all of it, and for two weeks, I never once cracked. I learned the power of silence. I strengthened my mental walls so firmly that nothing got in and nothing leaked out. I learned the strength that came with endurance. Because, holy fuck, did Iendure some of the worst shit of my life during those two weeks. Torture, in its worst forms, couldn’t get me to crack.

It’s why they named me Krypt. I held onto the K because of some attachment I’d formed to my birth name, but mostly because the letter C angered me. Couldn’t stand to look at it. I was a vault of information, and when testing was done and I was allowed to vent and release that information, I couldn’t do it. I’d grown protective of it. And since no one in my life had ever been protective of me, aside from my brother, it felt like my duty to hold on to something dear. Of course, the information came out in phases, given to the group by our superiors. Since then, I’ve had nothing worth protecting.

But now Remiel…

“She called me sick. Just like Gia used to,” I tell Director. “Am I?” Because everyone has labelled me as such. My mother, Gia. My father. The homes I spent time in before joining Vile House. Teachers, doctors, and coaches. Friends who weren’t really friends.

“What even is sick?” he asks. “Your mind works differently from most. Doesn’t make you better or worse than any of them.”

“I’m the only one here without a solid diagnosis,” I remind him. “My sickness can’t be labelled.”

“Half of their diagnoses aren’t accurate either, and it’s not a sickness. It’s a mentality, and it doesn’t need a label. Do you want a label?”

Sort of. Because if I know what’s wrong with me, maybe I can understand why everyone thinks I’m sick.

I lack a normal attention span, yet I fixate and obsess. ADHD got slapped on my file.

I don’t really understand the concept of love, feel next to no regret or remorse over my actions, and have very little ability to suppress my impulses. Psychopathy showed up in my file.

I can’t differentiate or name all the emotions I feel, often confusing one for another. Alexithymia entered my file.

I like causing pain, not because it turns me on, but because it’s fascinating to witness how others react to it. Sadist.

I used to cut myself and watch my blood leave my veins, self-harming because it made me feel alive. Masochist.

I anger quickly, have very little tolerance for others, have zero patience, and tend to place blame on everyone else for that. I control people without fully intending to. Sociopath.

I’m smart in a selection of subjects, yet incompetent in others. Autistic, maybe neurodivergent, or somewhere on the Spectrum.

I range from mute to vocalist, happy to sad, angry to elated within the blink of an eye. Borderline personality disorder. Bipolar disorder.

I mention feeling like something else lives in my head. Schizophrenia. Dissociative identity disorder.

Asexual. Demisexual. Non-identifying. Numb. All of it describes me, yet doesn’t.

They’re all there and more, stamped in red and signed by doctors and specialists. Some conditions counteract others, and some cancel others out altogether. None of them are right. No one knows who I am or what is going on in my brain, least of all me. I’m not one thing, and I don’t fit the bill for anything particular, so labels get placed on my file as a way to appease the doctors. Not me. No one actually cares what I think, how I feel, or how their labels affect me.

It’s weird living in a brain that I don’t understand, and it causes me to feel disconnected from myself. Like I’m a passenger inside my own body, only letting the demons inside me rattle their confines enough to peer through my eyes as tiny windows to interpret the world we see.

“You crave understanding,” Director says when I don’t answer. “From yourself? Or from someone else?”

I don’t know. I like chaos, but I don’t like it inside me. I like mysteries, but wish I could solve myself. “Not sure.”

“We can do more testing if you want,” he says. He steps close to me but doesn’t touch me because he respects my comfort level. “But trust me, Krypt. When I look at you, I see someone unique and perfectly tainted. You wouldn’t be in Vile House if you weren’t. At some point, you need to let go of specific labels and learn to embrace everything different that makes you you. The guys love you.”

Half of them don’t feel love, but I get what he’s saying. I look at the body of Ophelia Hargrove, a psychology student from the city next over. I’m not sorry she had to die, and I’m not sorry about the way she died, but I am sorry Remiel had to witness it. Not because it hurt him, but because it links him to me more than I’m comfortable with after the sexual assault last night.

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