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The table is clear of any instruments, and my brows furrow in a frown. Did I imagine it all? But why would I imagine that? Some of it I didn’t even recognize. Maybe a new memory coming back to haunt me? I’m not sure anymore. I am insane, after all.

Where is the seesaw? I can’t tell if I’m up or down.

I slide my eyes left and right in confusion. The tablecloth is gone, replaced by gleaming wood, and the candelabra stays, flames dancing merrily as the wax dripsinto little cupped metal pieces. I hear a foreign, feline-sounding growl, low and rumbling, and glance up.

King’s face is pulled back by a metallic hand, neck muscles straining from the tension, but he doesn’t struggle. Another hand joins the first, pale and firm, fingers covered in silver rings, clenching around the warm hued throat, cutting off his air. The claws across his forehead dig deeper into his skin. I don’t like it, and my frown deepens.

Stop, I try to say it out loud, but I don’t know if I can. I’m lost in the fog. Would they even hear me?

The hand unclenches, the talons slowly withdraw, and King takes a deep choking breath through his nose. His lips are sealed shut by a piece of white fabric. He’s still choking, nostrils flaring. He tries to cough as the pale digits hold firm on his neck, waiting to squeeze again.

“He can’t breathe,” I manage to choke out. “Don’t hurt him.”

His head drops back down, and those eyes focus on me again.

The gently restrained hug returns, more cautious now. It’s a wild animal waiting just out of sight for a scrap of food. I recognize the feeling. Staying hidden. Searching for food, shelter, and warmth.

I’m suddenly in a house, an old wooden cottage with a comfortable chair perfectly molded for my comfort. A cheery fire crackles near my feet, just past the ottoman. Hands gently knead my shoulders, and I let my body go weightless.

There’s something seductive about this. Being waited on hand and foot. A table by my side is filled with foods I don’t recognize. I know that it’s there in case I need it. No starvation or thirst, just the comfort of knowing that if I need it, it’s there.

I’ve never had this pampered feeling before. It doesn’t seem like it’s mine. How can I recognize it when I’ve never felt it?

Yellow eyes blink at me, dark auburn brows pulled down to give them a more confused air.

I sit back. I need to get out of here. I can’t get stuck going up, up, up again. Why am I sitting down? Do I want to be tortured to death again? No, I don’t.

I’m an adult, not a child. I know how to work through pain. I can fight through panic. I just need a second, a weapon.

“Give her a weapon,” a calm voice floats across the fog to me, confusing me more. Who is it talking about? Another scientist?

“Do it now. She needs to feel like she can defend herself.”

A flash of silver catches my eyes as something slides across the table before me. My hand instinctively grabs it, and a revolver is held in my bad hand.

Peacemaker:“There you are, darling. I’ve missed you.”

I recognize this piece. It’s Mitri’s, a tiny part of him that he traded away.

Peacemaker:“I need you to focus only on me. Can you do that?”

I stare at it without answering.

Peacemaker: “Good. Now, what is happening? You’re here, but not here.”

What a perfect way to describe it. As long as I’m not here, I can’t feel the pain. But I need to focus and get out of here.

Peacemaker:“Why?”

The first thing that comes to my mind is the rib spreader. I remember how it felt when they -

Peacemaker:“Okay! Stop. You may not feel the pain, but Ido.”

I blink as I focus again on the revolver.

Peacemaker:“This is an anxiety attack? Like what you told us about?” His voice sounds strained.

Worse. The numbness is worse than that but comforting at the same time. I’ve been fighting against being like this for so long now, and I can’t even remember why.