Born, Darkly: Darkly, Madly Duet: Book One

by Trisha Wolfe

  I’m ordered to stand inside my white cell and face the cot. With my back to the officers, one of them unshackles my cuffs, then the cell door slides into place with a beep and hollow click. Once the door is locked and I’m sealed inside, I turn around.

  Cotsworth did away with solitary confinement. It’s now referred to as enhanced security confinement. I’ve had this six-by-eight room all to myself for the past year. My space is sparsely decorated with the only things I hold of value in this life.

  I don’t need many possessions. Too much tends to clutter a life, detract from what’s essentially important.

  Puzzle boxes are stacked on the one mounted plastic table. The most recent one completed, a scenic view of the Maine coastline. Sent to me by one of my fans. I have a number of those. Killer groupies is what the guards call them.

  In the middle of my cell, a precast pull-up bar extends from the ceiling. Specially designed to prevent inmates from harming themselves. And along the longest wall, two large posters: Kells Castle and a labyrinth. I got the labyrinth myself. The other was a gift from the groupies.

  Lights blink out, and the dim overhead track illuminates the cell in an eerier orange glow. Downtime for an hour before the pitch-black. I pull off my jumpsuit, toss it in the corner, and push up my thermal sleeves. I lie back on my cot and stare at the swirls of orange along the ceiling.

  Prison is all about schedule and order. Most inmates come from a place of chaos, making prison time a painful punishment. Strict rules don’t affect me the same way; I grew up being told when to eat, when to sleep, when to shit. Being here is like being back home, and I’m biding my time just like I did there.

  Nothing stays the same.

  Change is the one constant you can depend on.

  You either adapt or you don’t. That choice is what sets inmates apart. Those who wait, and those who rebel. A smart man once told me the wait for something to happen can drive a sane man mad. And this place is full of madness.

  Since I don’t have to worry about going crazy, I’m waiting.

  The guard passes my cell on his round, giving me thirty minutes to myself.

  I spring off the cot. The labyrinth poster is easily removed to reveal the true treasure beneath.

  The collection of images and articles I’ve amassed over the past nine months are arranged in a spiral collage on the wall, starting from when I first began my research, to her most recent trial. The newspaper clipping of her attack on the courthouse steps. The first day we met, and my confirmation that London needs me.

  I run my finger along London’s cheek, the image so lifelike I can recall the feel of her soft, warm skin. The flesh of her palm marred by a scar she tries to conceal, and the ink that peeks through at times to taunt me with its secrets.

  The outer ring goes back farther, sparse information sourced from the deepest waters of the Web. A girl with dyed blond hair. A decorated officer of the law. And the wreck that changed the outcome of the girl’s life.

  I pluck the most recent picture of London with her hair down from the wall and bring it closer, inspecting every gold fleck I can discern in her eyes. Before the blackness takes the meager light, I paste the image in the middle of my collage and back up a few paces until I’m under the pull-up bar.

  I’m a man obsessed. I knew she would test me. When she first demanded an interview, I questioned her intent, her reasoning, as to why she wanted it so badly. The other bottom feeders gave up easily, but not her—she persisted. I didn’t consider her endeavor desperate at the time, but it still made me curious. The more I looked into her, the more I saw her franticness, and then I scented it on her in her office.

  I can smell her now, that sweet scent of lilacs mixed with her arousal.

  Anyone that desperate for answers has demons to feed.

  And oh, her demons are alive and kicking in our sessions. It’s almost cruel to continue provoking her, but she needs to be broken from her trained thought pattern in order to accept the truth.

  If I’m obsessed, then she’s infatuated—an explosive combination.

  I lower my boxers and kick them aside, then grab the bar above. I pull my body up, curling my arms until my chin taps the bar. I repeat my reps three at a time: up, up, up and hold. I stare at London, her bottomless brown eyes, curvy hourglass figure that she can’t censor with her expensive suits. I see her crossing her legs right in front of me, applying pressure to the ache that pulses between those soft, inviting thighs.

  With each chin-up, my dick gets harder. The tension in my muscles travels down my body until it reaches the tip of my cock, begging for release. A fiery burn sears every sinew beneath my flesh as I speed the reps. Adrenaline races through my bloodstream, quickening my pulse. I can almost hear her…taste her…envisioning her struggling against the binds as her frantic voice calls my name…

  A deep groan rumbles out as I complete another rep. I hold my body up, chin pressed hard against the cold bar as the release takes me. My cock throbs, my stomach flexed taut, as I thrust my hips forward to drive the freeing sensation down to my calves. The sound of my ejaculate hitting the cement mixes with my heavy breaths, heightening the orgasm, before I let go.

  I drop to my knees, palms flat against the cool floor. She’s already fading from my mind as I heave in breaths. I reach behind my head and pull my shirt off to cover my mess, eyes squeezed tight, then settle back onto my heels. I claw at my head.

  Every scar on my body is aflame.

  My flesh demands punishment, but I grasp onto the lingering wisps of London’s face until the compulsion eases. Lightheaded and tingling, I savor this feeling before it’s torn away. With her, I don’t crave the abuse. I’ve enforced it for so long, it’s damn near impossible to stop—but she’s my answer. She’s my salvation.

  My blood runs hot. The frigid air touches my slick skin like a cruel caress, and I welcome it. I run my hands over the raised scars along my chest, feeling each life I witnessed being taken. Every one of them is carved into me, a brand that cements my fate, a penance I inflicted on myself for the pleasure I experienced during their suffering.

  I’m not alone.

  That initial realization was the first broken link in my chains.

  I won’t accept anything less than her; she’s my other half.

  I replace the poster, not bothering to dress. Before the light is gone, I bring her picture to the cot with me. I trace her features, memorizing them all over again.

  The cell goes dark, and I slip the image under my pillow. I run my hands over my forearms, tracking ink that cannot completely disguise the scars. My reminder that secrets can’t stay buried.

  London wants answers, I can give them to her. The only question is how far she’s willing to go to get them.

  7

  Entanglement

  London

  Breaking glass. Twisting metal. Grinding against asphalt. The smell of leaking gas.

  I relax my eyelids, trying not to force the memory. “It’s blackness after that,” I say, lacing my fingers together on my lap. “Can I open my eyes now?”

  I hear Sadie draw in a deep breath. “Let’s try a little longer. Practice your breathing technique. Let the blackness settle over you.”

  With a resigned nod, I fill my lungs. Hold my breath for five seconds, then expel the breath. I do this three times. Each intake sends a sharp pain into my lower back. My hands clench into fists as I release another lungful, freeing a curse.

  I open my eyes. “The pain’s too much today.” I flex my fingers to work out the stress. “I’m sorry you came all this way.”

  She tilts her head. “I’m not. No matter if we resolve anything in this session or not, I still get to visit my friend.” Her smile is warm yet practiced. This doesn’t bother me, because it doesn’t mean she feels the opposite of what she’s saying. Sadie isn’t able to experience feelings the way the average person does.

  Back in college, we discovered early on that Sadie had sociopathic tendencies, which res
ulted from a kidnapping she suffered as a young adult. She was tortured for days, and then she witnessed her abductor’s death during her rescue. She’s been able to channel this incident into a passionate career as a criminal behavioral analyst.

  Only those closest to her know that her practiced mannerisms are a performance to fit in with society. It’s also why I requested she be here today, to help me work through some residual complications from my own past that I was never able to confront. Or rather, refused to confront. Sadie’s candor and insight might be uncomfortable for me, but she may also give me the push I need.

  “You’ve gotten really good at that emotions thing,” I say, smiling. “But you don’t need the farce with me. You know this.”

  Her features relax into their natural state. “I do it so often now, I don’t realize it. A reflex. Like I’m a real human being or something.” She laughs.

  I nearly reach out to her, but decide to pull my string from my pocket instead. Sadie is one of the only people I trust enough to let my guard down. “You’re as real as they come.”

  Her expression shifts, more serious as she seizes a change in topic. “Your most recent patient,” she says, “tell me about him.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “Nice pivot.” She shrugs, unapologetic. “Well, since I can’t discuss our sessions…what do you want to know?” I tighten the string around my finger.

  “How you’re handling it, and why suddenly after all these years you’re thinking about the surgery.”

  “Cause and effect.” I unwind the string. “It’s that simple, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  I bury my thread in my pocket and cup my hands together, concealing the scar along my palm that’s started to throb. “I’m experiencing countertransference,” I admit.

  Sadie doesn’t react. Countertransference is a normal occurrence in our field. “So this is the real reason for why I’m here.”

  “I am considering the surgery…but I also need to know if I should discontinue this particular patient’s sessions.”

  Sadie sits forward, and I notice for the first time that she’s wearing a V-neck, allowing me a glimpse of the scar along her collarbone. Something she’s hidden since the day we met. “Are you irritated during the sessions?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Is your back pain distracting? Could the pain be the outside source for projected emotions on your patient? Are you agitated? Anxious?”

  Again, I shake my head. “I wish it was that simple. I’ve dealt with that before.” I pause, mentally arranging the words before I’m able to voice them. “I’m attracted to him.” But it’s more than that…

  There’s no judgment in Sadie’s green eyes. “Is it purely physical?”

  I lick my lips. “It’s physical…and emotional, in part. Grayson is intelligent. Self-aware. Intense.” I inhale deeply. “He might be the first patient I actually believe I can help rehabilitate.”

  “And you want that for him.”

  “Of course.” Thoughts on our last session spring up. “He’s a manipulator. And I know the danger with manipulators, but I witnessed a breakthrough during our last meeting. I just need to work through what I’m experiencing, because I’m afraid without me he’ll be sentenced to death.”

  Sadie leans back. She’s seated in my chair. I’m the patient today. “You said afraid. Fear is a strong emotion. What else are you afraid of?”

  I give my head a quick shake, a mock laugh held at the base of my throat. I know these tactics, I know the process, and yet it doesn’t make being in the hot seat any easier. “You want to know if there’s any correlation between my thoughts of surgery and my patient being on death row?”

  She ticks her head to the side in a half shrug. “Is there?”

  I pull my bottom lip between my teeth. “I don’t think there is. The reasons for why I’ve put the surgery off have nothing to do with how I’m reacting to my patient.”

  “London, we’ve never fully addressed your survivor’s guilt,” she says. “Are you taking any steps to finally confront it?”

  “I’m considering the surgery, aren’t I?” I glance at the fish tank. “Sorry. I’m snappy today.”

  “No, you’re right. It is a major step to finally confront the fact that you are not responsible for your father’s death.”

  Like a slap to the face, her words smack hard and fast. My reflexive response is just as sharp. “I have never admitted that I blame myself—”

  “You’ve refused surgery that will correct your L-five and L-three injuries since the accident,” she presses. “You live with the pain daily because you were driving the car that night. It doesn’t take a professional to see the guilt you suffer, that you force yourself to suffer, London. And now that a patient, who you believe can make progress for the better, is about to be sentenced to death, you want to suffer that guilt, also. You’re projecting your shame onto a patient who—if you don’t save—you will bear the guilt for his death. Do you want to risk your career because you refuse to deal with this guilt? Have you ever asked yourself why you feel this need to seek mercy for murderers in the first place?”

  Brutal honesty. The reason why I allowed Sadie into my mind. I wipe the perspiration from my forehead. When I look at my hand, I glimpse the inked key beneath the layer of makeup. My temples pound in sync to my increasing heartbeat.

  “I need a break.” I stand and head toward the mini-fridge to grab a bottle of water. I take a long pull before I bring a bottle back for Sadie.

  She accepts and sets the water on the floor. “Too deep for a reentry session?”

  I huff a laugh. Then more serious, I look into her supportive gaze. “I killed my father.”

  I’ve never said those words out loud.

  Sadie doesn’t flinch. “The car wreck killed your father.”

  I nod, even though I know better. “I identify with him,” I say. That I’m referring to Grayson is understood. “My patient is the Angel of Maine. He kills ruthlessly. Without mercy, though his moniker suggests otherwise. And there’s not a bone in my body that can find fault with his logic. All his victims were deserving of punishment. And I identify with him, because I’m glad they’re dead.”

  Silence falls between us, the quiet growing too loud until I can’t stand staring at the floor any longer. I glance up. Sadie’s expression still harbors no hint of judgment, and somehow, that makes this worse.

  “I know.” I clear my bangs from my vision. “I need to stop the sessions with him.”

  “No,” she says, shocking me. “You need to delve deeper, trusting yourself to explore both transference and countertransference for you and your patient.”

  My brow furrows. “Psychoanalysis? I thought you agreed long ago I was not good with Freudian methods.”

  “You’re terrible with them.” Her smile is sincere. “But it would be a shame to allow a challenge to deter you from a great discovery just because of a little fear.”

  “Challenge myself,” I repeat, hearing the fear distinctly in my voice. “Is that doctor’s orders?”

  Her dark eyebrows raise. “In fact, it is. You don’t need me to tell you what to do, or give you permission. If your patient is sentenced to death, you have to accept it, and accept that it is not a reflection on you or your life. The danger isn’t whether or not you’re developing personal feelings for your patient. That can be remedied. A few sessions together and we’ll resolve them and you’ll go on with your career.”

  I hang on to her last words, waiting for the other shoe to drop. There’s always a downside.

  She leans in close. “The danger is in discovering the why. There are certain doors our minds close to protect us. Whether it’s blacked out memories or denial—” her gaze doesn’t waver “—we’ve chained those doors closed for a reason. Once you break the locks, there’s no going back. You may have to accept a new reality for yourself, and that can be dangerous.”

  I knew in asking Sadie here I wouldn’t be able to cont
inue to hide the truth. She’s mastered her abilities. “I’m scared that I’ve already begun the process.”

  She reaches across to take my hand, and I let her. It’s the kind of comfort you offer someone when they’ve lost a loved one—the pure desolation of one’s soul. Although Sadie is here with me, I’m embarking on this journey alone.

  I’m not afraid of what lies beyond the blackness. I know what’s there lurking, waiting. Threatening. I’m afraid that once I set the truth free, I’ll lose the last of my humanity.

  “Tell me what happened before the wreck. Let me be your anchor.” Sadie’s hand closes over mine, holding on to me tighter.

  Her question lashes out like a whip, cracking the seams of time, and the past bleeds into the present. First, a hazy red at the corners, then the blood covers my memories.

  So much blood.

  If Sadie knew the truth—if she knew the whole story—then her advice to pursue a deeper connection with my disturbed patient may be different. Beneath my professional obligations, a voice whispers from the dark recesses of my mind. A warning. To protect myself, I have to escape Grayson.

  He’s a danger.

  I swallow hard. Once I begin, I don’t stop until I have no breath left to tell another soul. “He wore a key around his neck…”

  8

  Gravity

  London

  There are laws which can be broken, and then there are laws we must obey. How does one person decide the fate of another human being based on these laws?

  With that question in mind, a sort of internal countdown has begun within me, a ticking hand on Grayson’s trial clock. With less than a month to form my analysis, the problem of rules presents itself:

  Which rules do we obey? Those of man, or those of the universe?

  On a long enough timeline, the rules of man change, and they change quite often. What was once considered a sin punishable by death is now a simple social media update, an expression of sexual preference, politics, religious belief. A hundred years from now, sin in its current state might be a laughable pastime, the way we look back on our ancestors who once believed the world was flat. Or the way we resent the ignorance of the Salem Witch Trials.