Page 66 of Our Pretty Darling Psycho
Which is the thought that finally cracks the spell.
I run my palm over the silk one more time, feeling the cool expensive slide of it, and I let myself name the thing the comfort is trying to make me forget: I did not choose this.
Every gentle, gorgeous detail of this room arrived while I was unconscious and unconsulted, decided for me, applied to me, the way a thing is decorated rather than asked. I have spent my whole life clawing back the right to choose, and I woke this morning into the loveliest dispossession of it I’ve ever experienced. Pretty hands still moved me where they wanted me.
The only difference is that this time the hands seem to want me happy, and a cage built out of someone wanting you happy is the single hardest kind to ever find the will to leave.
Because comfort is a trap.
I learned that in three different rooms across three different lifetimes, and I do not unlearn things. A reward is a leash; I knew that the morning a pole appeared in my cell, and I know it now with a clarity that cuts through the fog. Someone has washed me and dressed me and perfumed my room and laid me down on silk, and someone does not do that to a thing they intend to keep at arm’s length.
Someone is courting and has decided to make my cage so beautiful I forget to test its bars.
The truly humiliating part—the part that has my pulse climbing and my scent thickening sweet and sharp in the still morning air—is that for the length of one hour at that mirror, it almost worked.
I am panicking.
I recognize the symptoms now that I’ve stopped pretending they’re wonder. The too-quick breath. The buzzing under the skin. The way my eyes keep darting the room for the lens that has to be here somewhere, because there is always a lens, and not finding it is somehow worse than finding it.
This is what undoes me—not chaos.
Chaos is my native country; I could nap in a burning building. It’s the peace that frightens me. The stillness. The absence of a single thing to fight, to outwit, to perform for. I have spent so long being the most dangerous element in every room that I no longer know who I am in a room that isn’t trying to kill me, and the not-knowing is a kind of free fall.
So I do the thing I always do when the ground drops out: I work.
I make myself catalogue.
The lens, when I finally find it, is tucked into the carved rose at the center of the ceiling medallion, a single glass eye angled to take the whole room, and there will be others—in the lamp, the mirror frame, the vent—because they promised the institutiona watched cage and they are men who keep the promises that serve them.
I count the exits: the door, the window, a second door that likely gives onto a bathroom. I clock the absence of anything sharp, anything heavy, anything that isn’t soft and pretty and safe, which tells me the room was dressed by someone who knows precisely what I can do with a hard edge. They’ve thought of everything.
That should comfort me, that the men who took me are this careful.
It does the opposite. Careful is how you handle a thing you intend to keep.
My mind, traitor that it is, keeps working even as the rest of me comes apart—cataloguing, mapping, building the case file.
Arch Hollow, the rational part recites, because somewhere in the poisoned dark I heard the name spoken over a meeting I was too sedated to attend. A controlled town. A gilded experiment. The three of them maneuvered the institution into letting them carry me out here, and the institution called it security, and the only question my unraveling brain can’t quite hold steady is the one that matters most:what do they actually want, and which of the prettily wrapped gifts in this room is the one with the hook inside it.
I have to get out of this room.
I have to move, do something, break the unbearable serenity before it finishes dissolving me. So I cross to the door on legs that feel borrowed, and I wrap my soft, foreign hand around the handle, and I brace—genuinely brace—for the moment the dream tears like wet paper and reality comes roaring back to smack me flat.
I pull the door open.
Reality does not come roaring back.
Instead my eyes land on a pair I would know in any light, in any state, at the bottom of any spiral—those pale, knife-grey, cynically beautiful eyes that once studied me in total silence while an entire room of people fled to the far wall to avoid breathing his air.
Riot.
He’s leaning against the frame across the corridor, arms crossed, like a man who has been standing guard outside my door for a long while and has nowhere he’d rather be. And when our eyes lock—this time, in this maddening gilded morning, with the peace dissolving me from the inside out—he does the single most useful thing anyone has ever done for me. He becomes the one fixed point. The anchor in a room that’s come unmoored.
The only solid, scarred, dangerous, real thing in a glimpse of heaven that’s been quietly drowning me.
He reads it instantly. That’s the thing about this man—he doesn’t catalogue and analyze the way Doc does, doesn’t dissect with poetry the way Silas does; he simply knows, the way one animal knows another’s distress before it’s made a sound. His gaze sharpens on my too-quick breathing, on whatever raw and unraveling thing is showing in my mismatched eyes that I haven’t the strength to hide, and his expression shifts from lazy to lethal-focused in a single beat.
And then he’s moving.
