Page 35 of Beautiful Deception

He doesn’t wait for me to take it and forces the mug into my hands, unwilling to accept any disobedience when his smile goes alarmingly grim.

I know what’s going to happen if I drink it. I realize it too late that I’ve been drugged all those times and rendered unconscious instead of sleeping. My skin tears with tension, splintering and shredding as Remo’s breath torments the back of my neck.

“And Peter,” Remo murmurs as his tongue flicks the skin with the softest lick. “He hurt you, so there’s no problem there.”

As if there was a problem with Joe in the first place. Yes, he took out my ankle and popped the tires, but I think I can forgive him a little bit more because he rendered Peter defenseless during his time of doom.

“Don’t worry,” Dr. Kian comforts and fluffs the hair on top of my head. “I was there. As far as I’m concerned, it was the drugs that led to Peter’s suicide.”

And the circle meets again with Joe’s actions. It’s too coincidental, but it also makes sense. However, the sight of evil in Dr. Kian’s eyes isn’t fast enough to shelve his thoughts, nor does he pretend to try to hide the appallingly pleased smile.

“I didn’t see anything.” It’s a doleful attempt, but my pride won’t settle until it tries to fight their conviction to instill normalcy into my head—that it’s normal to remove hurdles and retaliate on things that selfishly hurt me.

“I believe you,” Remo agrees, the rough skin on his thumb sneaking into the hem of my shirt and gently brushing my startled skin.

“Though, he doesn’t have to,” Dr. Kian muses icily, “I hope you understand that and behave accordingly.”

Then his smile warms, a switch of emotions as quick as the pinched pulse in my heart, and he pushes the mug up with one finger from the bottom—a silent command to drink.

Remo clasps his hand over my jaw and firmly grips me as I try to pull my head away from the cup. Another muted command. My eyes are wide with surprise, protests dying on the parted seam of my lips as one of them encourages me to swallow it while the other presses sweet kisses on my temple.

“No,” I whimper, too vulnerable and tottering.

“Be a good girl,” Dr. Kian coos, “it’ll be a nice nap. I promise.”

His voice always seems to have sedating effects on me, the same way Remo’s rough touches bring a sense of security, and combined, both are a form of haven.

Remo tilts my chin up slightly, my head bumping into his chest, and lets the warm liquid coat my dry throat. Dr. Kian controls the speed and stream really well, and the precision terrifies me to no end.

The effect is considerably stronger this time, no doubt due to over-soaking the herbs. It has no harsh aftertaste; in fact, it didn’t have much of a taste at all. It’s water with a hint of herbs and a drop of sweetness.

Why didn’t I fight? A question that parrots into the void because I’m also terrified of the answer. I know I should fight, and it’s an obvious reaction, yet I let them feed something that’ll sedate me.

Kindred spirits, those two. But what am I?

After everything they’ve done, my body still voluntarily seeks their touch and craves their eyes on me. When have I lost my sense of self? Was it before meeting them?

It feels like someone cut a gap in my memories and stitched two ends together, but they’re mindful of its continuity and plausibility.

Perhaps I’m attracted to insanity.

My ears vaguely pick up a rolling sound as my eyes struggle to stay open, merely seeing a dark gray suitcase being set in front of me. Dr. Kian’s beautifully long fingers tap a tune of tragedy, and each beat has different levels of intensity.

“You might wake up and not remember anything, or you won’t wake up ever again.” Dr. Kian carefully places the suitcase, unzips it, and opens it to give the skittering emotions time to probe around my limp body before they form thoughts of the future and things that will or will not happen.

“If I had to guess, no matter how hurtful it is, you’d pick the latter.”

Remo presses one last kiss to my cheek with the affirmation, his lips lingering on a deceitfully innocent smile, and picks me up. The tiredness goes down to the marrow of my bones, and there is something brewing in my fingers when they weakly grab at Remo’s retreating hand after he sets me inside the suitcase.

I barely feel the retractable handle digging into my arm, but I feel every nerve screaming in pain from the soft fabric. My body won’t move, not even a twitch, when they tuck a pillow under my head and a thick blanket around me to keep me warm. It fills in the extra space and protects me from the corners.

Their consideration feels contradictory.

I’m trapped in my body and barely conscious, but that’s more than enough to hear them.

Dr. Kian curls my name on his tongue, an ambrosia of tenderness in his husky voice, and pinches my cheek as a lover would.

Consciousness is escaping through the hourglass; the pearly sand, like fairy-dust liars, embarks on a gentle descent into the darkness, their stories stealing my fears as my eyes flutter shut.

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