Page 53 of Cruel Malady: A Necrosis of the Mind

“Aren’t you worried I’ll stab my jugular?”

I turn to face her, and her gaze goes to the syringe in my hand. “I didn’t perceive you as suicidal. Should I be worried?”

Blakely drops the chain, purposeful in her intent to cause a disturbance. “As you studied me,stalkedme, know everything about me, then you should know the answer to that.”

I hold up the syringe and flick the tube, ridding it of any bubbles. I decide to steal her thunder, as it were, and remove the future opportunity to vilify me with her words.

Taking a seat on the stool opposite her, I say, “In my room, every clock was set to the conception of a new idea. A hypothesis. A theory. An experiment. A subject. Anything of importance that I deemed deserving of documentation, I made it tangible by giving it a way to track its own timeline.”

Blakely brings her legs beneath her, chains rattling with her movement. “Well, your little room of horror looks a lot like if Salvador Dali painted his version of a void.”

Amused, I raise an eyebrow. “Your assessment isn’t far off. That void’s name is Musou black. The blackest paint in existence. It consumes light, allowing nothing to reflect off its surface. I wanted only my clocks to exist in the room.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You believe I know so much about you, therefore I feel you should know something about me in return.”

“DoIhave a clock, Alex?”

A hesitant pause, then: “Yes.”

She’s silent for a long beat, her watchful eyes never wavering. “I bet you have a real hard-on for Dali.”

A smile twitches at my lips. “I hope you don’t lose your edge, Blakely.”

She stands abruptly. “Then don’t take it from me, Alex.”

I glance at the syringe in my hand, a heavy weight filling my chest. “I simply have no choice.”

I push off the stool and have her in my grasp. She attempts to wrap the chain around my neck, but I step on the length, locking her wrists by her sides. Hand clamped to the back of her neck, I stare down into her face. Those piercing eyes promise malice.

“I’ll try to be gentle.”

“Go to hell.”

I sink the needle into her arm and watch as her pupils dilate. Blakely becomes docile, her body going slack, and I quickly wrap an arm around her waist to catch her. I carry her to the gurney and lay her on the bedding, removing the chains and securing her cuffs to the side bars.

As I ready the drip bag with anesthesia, she croaks out a word.

“What did you say?” The combination of the drug and the anesthesia is dangerous, and I have to adjust the dose carefully.

When she says nothing more, I clip the bag to the bar and insert the needle into her arm. She’ll be completely under in less than a minute.

“I was thinking about time earlier,” I say, as I place adhesive over the tube on her arm to keep it in place, “and how if I could only send you on a course at the speed of light, I could slow the necrosis in your brain. Maybe even reverse the process.”

She swallows, straining to keep her eyes open and locked on my face.

“That’s absurd, I know. A foolish, whimsical theory that has no basis.” I stroke her hair, my fingers splaying the blond layers over her shoulder. “If there was a way to do this differently…for you, I assure you, I’d try.”

But that’s not our reality. The desire to cure her must outweigh the risk. No matter the pain, no matter the torture for us both.

I won’t fail her.

“I think about that moment between us outside the warehouse,” I say, as she starts to fall under. “When my emotions were soaring, when you asked me to describe how I felt to you. What you were truly asking me for was this right here. You were pleading with me to help you, Blakely—and I’ve never wanted anything more.”

Her lips move, and I lean in closer.

“The doctor was always the real monster,” she whispers as her eyes flutter closed.

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