Page 225 of On a Fault Line

He left me.

I brought me here.

Toddling to the door of my room, I try the handle and am surprised when it opens.

Leaning forward, I look down both sides of the hall, but I can only see a few yards in front of me with the red fog. I find no one.

I find the exit sign at the end of the wing. It’s my beacon in the darkness. The black box outlines the red letters, although they are blurry from this distance.

I stare at each illuminated dot, focusing my energy on getting closer to that sign and hopefully out of this mental prison.

I brought me here.

My feet carry me zigzag down the hall. I’m like a baby deer learning to take its first steps. Whoever is watching me on the security footage must be laughing.

Cameras.

There’s cameras here—all over. There’s twenty-four-hour surveillance. The workers take shifts around the clock. My brothers would never have chosen a place for me that didn’t host the best security features. That I know.

Waving my hands into the air as a call for help, I look to see where the black eyes are, presumably on the ceiling. I’ve never really noticed before. I just assumed they were watching me when I stepped out of my room.

Someone’s always watching me…

I mouth “help!” just in case anyone in the control room can read lips. I’m wishful thinking someone can read my mind instead. Maybe then they can let me know what I’m thinking.

Everything seems so fuzzy.

I brought me here.

When I get halfway to the neon exit light, a door opens, followed by a sack of something falling out—right at my bare feet.

Looking down at the source of my shock, I gasp.

My hands fly to my face as I cry out, “Dr. Radinsky!”

Oh, no.

No!

And then I wail. A guttural, deep in my soul, weeping sound…

Dr. Radinsky is covered with blood and it’s appearing to come from her head. Tar-like streams pour into her closed eyes, pooling until she blinks, sending them plummeting south. Her hair soaks up the mess.

Her beautiful hair…

I’m going to throw up.

“Ahhh!” I yell, watching her eyes look at me pleadingly for help. It startles me.

I’m not even sure how she can see through the blood.

She’s alive.

Thank goodness she’s alive.

Her eyes just stare at me, as her hands try to cover over the wound gushing with the dark, thick syrup.

“I’m sorry,” I groan. “I’msosorry.”

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