Page 56 of Bonds of Hate

Silence. Until I force my eyes open.

He shifts to the periphery of my vision, drawing out the moment in the way he always does. I refuse to lookat his face, instead fixating on the starched white lines of a pressed lab coat.

White now, but it won’t be for long.

I don’t know his name, not the real one anyway. The forged mating contract he used to trick the Enclave matrons had a fake one on it. He insists I address him as doctor, but I refuse to do so within my own mind, not when this is the only refuge I have left.

Instead, I call him the monster.

He holds up the scalpel where I can see it, holding it gently between index finger and thumb like the bow of a violin.

An artist with his terrible instrument.

I made the mistake early on of thinking that this tiny blade could only be capable of so much damage. I’ve since learned there are few limits when one has enough time and the patience.

“A colleague of mine theorized that scent glands can be completely removed and transplanted without affecting the ability to form a mating bond. It would be a remarkable advancement if a procedure could be perfected. Such a shame that so few of us have the stomach for what must be done. Their loss, I suppose. The glory of discovery will remain mine alone.”

His voice sweeps over me with a wash of pickled ginger and cheap sod. The scent is reminiscent of death and decay, maggots squirming in the soil above a newly dug grave.

I can’t stop my flinch when the edge of a blade glides along the side of my neck, just above where a frantic pulse beats against the fragile skin.

The monster shushes me with the soft murmuring noises aschoolboy would make to the injured dove in his hands just before snapping its neck.

He doesn’t expect or desire an answer from me. A throat gone hoarse with screaming is an assault to the ears, anyway.

“Not that I would assume you to be aware of the importance of our work here, useless thing that you are. I know you think you’ve suffered here, but it is all in service to something greater. We are here to make you worthy. To make history.”

I let his words wash over and off me like an ocean wave, focused only on keeping my head above the water. Losing consciousness would only compel him to wake me in some undesirable way. He desires an audience for this, and I am the only one available.

His blade lingers at the sharp juncture of my clavicle. It moves up and down the jutting edge of bone as if it distracts him.

I entertain the distant hope that the desire for cruelty will overwhelm him enough for a mistake. A cut too deep to staunch. An escape, that is the only one I haven’t yet attempted.

“Of course, miracles of modern medicine come only in their due time. We won’t risk our grand design on an untested procedure. A secondary gland will do just as well for now.”

The monster strokes gloved fingers down my wrist, playing just above the leather shackle.

His blade flashes silver before I squeeze my eyes shut. The pain is delayed, overburdened synapses firing so slowly that I could almost believe that I imagined the sound of flesh slicing cleanly, the skip in my heartbeat as blood pumps to the surface.

When the agony arrives, surprise makes it that much worse.

He laughs at my screams.

Pickled ginger and sod. The taste of death lingers on my tongue.

Iwake up screaming.

My fingers run frantically over the throbbing skin of my wrist, searching for a wound that no longer exists but somehow still throbs in sympathetic suffering. It takes several minutes for my mind to pick apart the tightly woven threads of reality and nightmare.

The phantom pain lingers, ghosting across my skin where the scalpel carved into me. There is the smallest bump under the skin there, scar tissue from where the gland was surgically removed and then re-implanted. Ostensibly still functional, though I haven’t had the opportunity to test that theory.

The monster had made me look at that innocuous bit of flesh before returning it to my body. He told me he would drop the tissue and let it rot on the floor if I refused to open my eyes.

It had been the pale pink of a new skin, still pulsing slightly despite the lack of blood flow. About the size of a grape, it was disgustingly reminiscent of a chewed-up piece of bubble gum.

I rush to the bathroom with just enough time to make it to the commode, vomiting the full contents of my stomach until I’m left dry heaving over the porcelain.

The memory is still too real, too fresh. Despite the dim warmth of this tiny room, I feel the cold metal of the examination table against my back, the clinical brightness of the fluorescent lights burning my retinas when my eyes are forced open.

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