Page 6 of The Girl and the Cobra

I’m slow in turning away from the door. Instead of staring at my scarred arm, my gaze falls to the bed between my spread knees. Wolf didn’t tell me much about her, other than when their appointments are and how I’m not allowed to be on the first floor while she’s here.

She seemed normal enough. She didn’t look like she’s as broken as I am.

Just one look at me and anyone can tell something’s wrong with me. Even if I pull my sleeves down over the scars on my arms, even if I hide my sister’s name on my skin, I can’t hide all of the scars. My hands. My face. My neck. There’s scarcely a part of my body that’s scar-free.

I spent five years believing Shay was gone, that I’d never see her again. Spent those five years believing I failed her, and so I saw fit to torture myself. To hurt myself, to cut myself over and over again until pain was all I could feel. For so long, that pain was my only company.

That, and my mask. The man I pretended to be. The Cobra.

But there must be more to the girl than meets the eye, otherwise Wolf wouldn’t have taken her in as a patient. He must be a real doctor of sorts, a real therapist with an actual degree; I do have some doubts. His methods are… questionable, but he only works with questionable patients like myself, so I guess it fits.

As their voices become quieter and quieter, as they walk away from my room, I start to wonder just what’s so fucked up with the girl—what’s her deal if she’s here, a new patient of Wolf’s? Not a single part of me should care or even be curious, but she’s the first person I’ve seen other than Wolf since I got here. Until her, I was his only patient, someone who needs constant supervision.

I haven’t cut myself, though, nor have I tried to run away. I’ve been good, as good as someone like me can be. I think because I know this is it. This is the end. My slow march, the final curtain call. This is my torture before death takes me in its cold embrace and I surrender to oblivion.

As the minutes tick by, I eventually tug my sleeve down and cover my sister’s name. Instead of staring down at it and wondering what went wrong, instead of marveling at how spectacularly everything blew up in my face, I think about the girl and what could be wrong with her.

My world has been so small lately, her mere addition to it makes it feel that much larger. After a while, I get up and exit my room. I walk down the hall and sit at the top of the stairs. Slumped a bit, from where I am at the top of the steps you can see most of the hall. I’ll be able to see when she leaves.

Wolf is with her in the office, the space where he pretends to be a normal man, a therapist who knows what he’s talking about. I imagine the girl, whoever she is, thinks nothing is wrong with Wolf. That he’s nothing more than a normal man.

She couldn’t be more wrong. It takes a certain brand of psychopath to control another.

I wonder what they’re talking about in that room. Not all scars are physical; whatever’s wrong with her, it must be underneath the surface. I’d know something about that. I’m the reason my body is littered with so many scars. If it weren’t forme bringing my pain to the surface, the only scars on my body would be from the bullet holes.

Time passes, and soon enough the appointment is over. I get to my feet at the top of the stairs when I hear the office door open, and I move through the second floor of the house, quiet as a snake. I go to one of the windows in the front of the house, and I make it just in time to see the girl leave.

A car waits for her. I can’t see who’s inside, whether it’s family or a significant other. She reaches it, sets her hand on the handle, and she’s about to open the door when the wind jostles her yellow hair around. She pauses. And then, for some inexplicable reason, she glances back at the house.

It’s like she can feel me. Her wandering gaze takes only two seconds to meet mine when she looks back, angling her head up to look at me in one of the second-story windows.

I’m so used to the shadows, so used to wearing that mask, that my first instinct is to shrink away, to step to the side and hide. But I don’t. For some reason, I stay right where I am.

The breeze blows outside again, and just like that, whatever magical force connected us breaks that link. The girl turns away as she opens the car door, ducking to get inside. I watch as she drives off, leaving the property until her next appointment with Wolf.

Wolf must know me too well by now—or he’s got some freaky spider-sense—because it’s not too long after the car disappears that he finds me near the window. I don’t turn and look at him; I can see his reflection on the glass, and with the way he’s staring at the back of my head, I can tell he’s not happy.

“You’re testing the limits of your boundaries,” Wolf remarks icily, as if sensing I’m about to remind him I did as I was told: I didn’t go downstairs. “Nothing I didn’t expect.” He moves to stand on the other side of the window, gazing out of it even though there isn’t much to see. “I did not think she wouldwander and find you. I suppose it was silly of me to believe I could keep you two apart.”

“What’s wrong with her?” I ask, my voice low.

The way Wolf sighs makes it sound like he’s addressing a child who should know better instead of me, a twenty-six-year-old adult. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

I recall the almost sun-kissed nature of her skin, the natural highlights in her blond hair, and I deduce the only thing I can from our mini staring contests: “She’s not from around here.” Not spoken of as a question; I know she’s not. She’s used to somewhere with much more sun.

Wolf sticks his hands into his pockets. “No, she’s not. She moved here with her father this past week. She’s here to stay.” His voice takes on a hard edge. “That means she will coming here more and more. I should not have to tell you this, but I will tell it to you anyway: she is off-limits. I don’t want her to talk to you, let alone see you. It wouldn’t be good for either of you, given what you’ve both gone through.”

I swallow hard, biting back my natural cold response. I hate having someone tell me what to do, and yet at the same time, I know he’s right. Still… Wolf really should’ve known.

When I don’t say a word, Wolf goes on, “Is that understood, Tristan?” A hard edge to the question; if I don’t give him an answer he believes, it won’t end well for me. The collar around my neck feels tight, all of a sudden.

I meet his green eyes and hold his stare for a few seconds before I say, “Yes.”

Wolf is mistrustful—or he can see through my bullshit because we’re the same flavor of psychopath. Either way, he must decide it’s not worth the effort, because he says not a word more and leaves me at the window, alone.

I watch him go, much like I watched the girl go.

Yes, Wolf should’ve known better. Telling me the girl’s off-limits… that only makes me more curious. What is it about this girl that brought her to Wolf’s door?

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