Page 79 of Cruel Malady: A Necrosis of the Mind

The city is muggy, stifling, as I weave through the teeming crosswalk. Even the air is dense and feels crowded as it presses against my skin. I reach the brownstone and unlock the front door of my new apartment, the one I secured a block away from Blakely’s place. It wasn’t an easy acquire; the landlord had to be persuaded. But with a hefty down payment and six-month’s rent paid in advance, the overpriced closet is mine and in a prime location to keep watch over my subject.

I unload my pack at the entryway and, like every other time I’ve done so, seek the comfort of seeing Mary’s face. There’s no comfort, however. No framed photo of us when we were kids. None of her Renaissance paintings line my walls.

I had to leave my worldly belongings behind. A dead man doesn’t return to clean out his apartment. And Blakely checked. Twice. As if needing confirmation that I was really gone, she went through my mail. She watched my loft, stalking my old haunt the way she used to stalk her targets.

With a resigned frown, I glance around the sparsely furnished studio. Eventually, the landlord of my old place will either auction off my possessions or toss them.

I stop in the kitchen to grab a water from the fridge. Door held open, I relish the cool refrigerated air as it blasts my slick skin, gaze landing on the top shelf with the five glass vials.

Athumpsnags my attention, and I hastily guzzle from a water bottle before I grab one of the vials and head into the bathroom.

Location wasn’t the only reason why I chose this place. The converted studio next door was condemned due to a fire. Renovations stalled when the price of building materials went sky-high, leaving the place vacant. With the state of the economy, the project is likely to stay abandoned for the foreseeable future.

I slip the vial in my pocket before removing the bathroom mirror to expose the hole in the wall. Cut large enough to crawl through, I clear the opening and enter the dark apartment.

The air inside here is only marginally less humid then outside. The unit doesn’t have power, so I had to utilize the electricity from mine. I drilled a small hole through the baseboard and wall to run two power cords, which feed power to the devices I consider more vital than air-conditioning.

Thethumpcomes louder this time, and my phone buzzes in my back pocket with the alarm.

I turn off the reminder, then set my phone on the bare metal table. Construction debris and dust covers the unit. The wood floors have been pried up in areas. Cabinets ripped out. The walls have been stripped to reveal the original brick. It reminds me of Mary’s cabin in a way, the age and history, the solid bones.

I take a syringe from the basket under the table. “The anesthesia wore off quicker than anticipated. I’ll account for that from now on.”

As I fill the syringe with the contents of the vial, the restrained man in the center of the room groans and wriggles against his bindings. I was able to secure an old gurney from a hospital’s dumpsite, but unfortunately, I did have to break into my retirement fund to acquire all new computers and lab equipment.

The black market is where I earn a living these days, selling hacking software and cloning prototypes. I recall once telling Blakely I had no intention of doing so, but the ends justify the means. I need money—lots of it—to fund a new project.

Since time is of the essence, I forewent building another brain scanner and mapping device, and instead purchased the instruments direct from a Korean lab.

It’s risky, conducting the experiment in the city. I thought I was clever before by selecting a remote location in the middle of nowhere. But truthfully, there is nowhere more alone and isolating than this city. People are burdened with busy schedules and stacked one on top of the other, forcing them to ignore their neighbors for the sake of privacy. They don’t want to know what I’m doing here; they just appreciate that I’m quiet and keep to myself.

I could be a Dahmer copycat, but as long as I’m severing heads quietly and making sure to keep the electricity on so the body parts don’t reek up the hallway, people don’t give a damn.

As I approach Subject 9, I hold the syringe up and then, with clear warning in my gaze, order him to remain silent. “Let’s make this quick. I have a date tonight.”

Sweat beads his forehead. The duct tape is slick as I rip it away from his mouth.

He blows the mouthguard out, his ashen face highlighted with red welts and rashes from the adhesive. “Please…you have to let me go. I don’t deserve this—this is insane.”

I inhale a deep breath, acutely aware of the absent scent in the stale air, that intoxicating mix of coconut and bergamot.

Her scent.

The fragrance of my lab when she was there.

Blakely’s scent imbued me, putting me right at her mercy.

Since smells travel directly to the memory and emotional hubs of the brain, even the absence of a smell can trigger an emotional response.

If I don’t rectify us soon, I fear I’ll completely lose the memory of it, and it will forever linger in that haunted cabin basement.

I slip my good hand into a glove and proceed with tightening the straps on my subject.

“God, no…” He fastens his eyes shut. “I haven’t eaten for two days. This is inhumane!”

There’s that word again, and just like every other time I’ve heard it uttered, the vertebrae along my spine locks taut. “Really, inhumane is how you subjected your college roommate to a hazing stunt that left him maimed for life. But—” I shove the mouthguard back into his mouth and secure it with a new strip of tape “—I’m neither your judge nor your jury.”

And with the exact replication of the treatment, I won’t be his executioner, either.

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