They tied my hands again. And just like before, the same shrink is sitting in front and fixing me with a calculating stare. “How do you manage to free your hands and act on your compulsive thoughts to end up like this even after we tie your hands?” This time, the doctor sounds actually curious and maybe a bit in awe at how I do that. “I have a few tricks up my sleeves.”

  “The only thing under your sleeves are scars.”

  I feel a sudden surge of anger at how casually she addresses such a grave issue. Without thinking, I lunge for her in a red haze of rage, but the ropes hold me back. As for her, she calmly leans back, knowing I can’t do anything with chains all around my body. God, I feel like a dog on a leash.

  “So have you decided not to tell me anything at all?” she arches a brow.

  “No.”

  She gives me a devilish grin. “Fine then, let’s resort to other methods.” Getting up from her chair, she moves to my cupboard. What the fuck is she doing? Opening it, she notices that all my stuff is arranged in groups of three. Three clothes—a gap—again three clothes. Three books—a gap—again three books.

  “You aren’t allowed to touch any of that! “I protest, but my words fall on deaf ears.

  She shifts one of my clothes to the side, leaving a group of four on one side and two on the other. No...it needs to be three...

  Next, she proceeds to do the same with the books, leaving them too in groups of two and four. “Keep them back just like they were,” I’m almost shouting right now, but she doesn’t even budge.

  “Now, Mr. Riven, either you start talking, or I mess things up further.” She sits back down on the chair with her notepad, like the very definition of innocence. I try not to look at the books or the clothes, but unfortunately, that’s where my gaze lands. My breath starts becoming shallow, and I grit my teeth. Each breath scrapes like sandpaper down my throat. My chest clenches like it’s bracing for impact. Fuck. Not again. The shrink repeats her warning. “Better start speaking, time’s ticking… One… Two…” She stops there, looking at me with a smirk that shows her wicked intent. I wait for the word three to fall from her lips, but it doesn’t.

  Three. Three. Three.

  I can't speak. Can't blink. Can’t move. Not until the pattern is fixed.

  She broke it. She broke it. She—

  I let out a sharp exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose, trying to ground myself. But without Inez, it’s a lost cause.

  “Just take me back… please.”

  My voice comes out sounding desperate and pathetic instead of commanding like I planned. “If this is how you treat your patients, you might just be the worst shrink ever,” I say, without looking at her. She gives me a mock-sweet smile. “Well, I did get you to talk, didn’t I? I doubt any other doctor could do that. Besides, the process doesn’t matter—the result is all that does. Now tell me, why do you want to go back?”

  My hands are clasped tightly in my lap as I feel every muscle in my body tensing up. Fuck, she’s messing with my head, using my OCD against me until I have no other option except to speak.

  “I need her.”

  “Who?”

  “Inez. My psychiatrist.”

  A hint of recognition flashes in her eyes. Does she know Inez? Perhaps they were in the same medical school or something. Looks like she’s satisfied with the information she managed to get—for now. She finally puts things back as they were, while mocking me. “I should’ve thought of this earlier, don’t you think?”

  I can do nothing but grind my teeth in response. She turns to walk out, but she calls over her shoulder:

  “One… Two… Three…”

  Relief floods through my chest as the words leave her mouth, though I wouldn’t admit it to my wounded pride.

  ****************************************************************************************

  I’ve lost track of time staring at a wall for hours. They gave me food, but I don’t want it. I want her. I need her. She is my redemption, my salvation in an abyss of darkness. Without Inez, I’m just a weak, broken, and pitiful excuse of a man. The scars went away when I was with her. That’s all that mattered. I made a new cut every single day since I was seventeen, often retracing old scars which were about to fade away. I didn’t do any of it for the brief time I spent with her. And surprisingly enough, I didn’t kill anyone either. I’m snapped out of my thoughts by a pen tap against my leg. Looking down, I find a paper note written by the boy whose bed is beside mine.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  He looks younger than me, probably around Nico’s age. Brown hair, skin paler than white itself, and sunken eyes which hold quite the strength if observed closely enough. “Cruel, aren’t they?” That’s what the note reads. With a sigh, I nod. “Yes. Yes, they are. She, especially, is. What’s your name? ” In moments, there’s another piece of paper in my hands.

  “Ezra...I say, the name rolling off my tongue.

  He passes me another note: “You look like you want to kill everyone in here—don’t bother, they’re already dead on the inside.”

  I let out a sigh. No wonder.

  Turning to face him, I ask, “Are you mute?” He holds up his notebook. On the page it’s written: “Selectively so.” Beside the words, disturbing figures are scribbled everywhere. Before I can take a good look, he lowers the notebook again, scribbles something, crumples the page, and throws it to me. Opening it, I find words that chill me with their precision:

  “Room no. 37, Fourth floor.”

  When it hits me, confusion gives way to realization. So Ezra hates the shrink too, huh? That’s why he gave me Dr. Isabell’s room. So that I can kill her by tomorrow. How perfect.

  “Thank you, kid.”

  ****************************************************************************************

  So this is what power feels like. It runs through your veins, hums in every part of your body until you’re drunk on it.

  Beneath me, Dr. Isabell begs and whimpers for her life. But of course, it’s no use. She should have thought about the consequences before toying with me. I have held a blade to her neck and my grip on her arm is strong like iron.

  “P-please, Riven, I’m sorry…” She tries to back away but I’ve already got her pinned to the headboard.

  “Give me one good reason why you think you’re worth the air you breathe.”

  “I-I can get you out of here! That too by… by tomorrow!” she cries out desperately.

  “Oh, and how will you do that?”

  “J-just lower the blade, please… I’ll tell!”

  I Skeptically, I lower it, thought my grip on her hand remains firm. She takes a relieved sigh.

  But I don’t let her relish it for too long.

  I press the blade against her arm again.

  Harder.

  Blood.

  She stutters, “Y-you hold the blade to...to my neck and I’ll call security. Don’t let me g-go until the manager himself arrives and tell him that you… y-you’ll kill me if they don’t transfer you back.” I consider her words. Well… this way, I’ll get to go back without too much hassle. I nod, watching her shoulders visibly relax.

  But I’m not letting her go without a price. Not after what she did.

  In a flash, my hand is on her mouth as I dig the blade into her thigh. Once, twice, thrice.

  There we go.

  Three times, just like I want. Each time she lets out a scream louder, more agonized than the last. And I fucking love it. After delivering the final blow, I whisper: “Shh… not a sound.” I smear her blood across her own face. Tears flow down her cheeks but she doesn’t dare make a noise. I watch with sadistic joy as the blood drips, spreading onto the sheets. I move close, close enough for her to feel my breath on her face.

  “This is the small price you pay for messing with my head. Call the security now.”

  She fumbles for the phone with shaking hands, dialling the number.

  “Help. Please,” she whispers, voice trembling through the receiver. I snatch the phone and throw it across the room so they don’t think I allowed the call on purpose. Within minutes, guards burst in, guns raised.

  “Not. A. Single. Step. Forward.”

  My voice is commanding, authoritative. Just the way I prefer. “Call whoever runs this place. Right now. Or she dies.” To emphasize my point, I press the blade harder against her neck.

  One guard rushes off. A while later, the manager enters, panic and sleep in his eyes.

  “Mr. Riven, what’s wrong?”

  “Send me back to my asylum,” I demand. That’s it. That’s all I say. Bold. Simple. Straightforward

  “Pardon?”

  “Was I not clear enough the first time?”

  “But sir, we can’t just—”

  I cut the man off. “Either you send me back or she dies.” The manager pauses, contemplating my words. His gaze travels to the stab wound. Something shifts in his face. His next words have pure satisfaction colouring my face.

  “Very well, Mr. Riven. We will be escorting you back to your previous asylum by tomorrow.”