Page 7 of Brainwashed

My heart races.

I use a sharp knife to cut into his flesh. Blood oozes. I touch it with my fingers… The sight of deep red covering my pale skin flutters in my belly and I feel sick.

I like the feeling.

I don’t feel sad for the fox, though. After all, I get to keep him like this.

The sounds of footsteps coming up the stairs snapped me out of the trance, and I scurried back into my bedroom, jumping into bed beneath the covers. I laid still, pretending to be asleep, when I heard my father at the doorway. I could feel him looking in at me. But he said nothing.

He left me alone to dream of sharp blades and bloody fingers.

That was a waste of a lunch break…

I was actually hungry, too. But now the thought of eating turns my stomach.

Walking steadily along the sidewalk in downtown Atlanta, I reach my office building, slipping inside. Joe, the security guard, waves at me, but I barely acknowledge him, catching a put-off look on his face as I enter the elevator. He shouldn’t be surprised…

It’s not as if I’m a normally chatty person. And I detest social conventions like waving pleasantriesevery single timeyou see someone. I find it completely unnecessary and highly ridiculous.We know you exist. We just saw each other a few hours ago.

Just another way for human beings to validate themselves. To feelseen.

My cynical nature is casting a shadow over me, so I close my eyes and take a breath, counting to ten while the elevator brings me up up up, to the twentieth floor, where my office is located.

I’m just frustrated. Obviously, the lunch with Gabrielle is affecting my mood. Just one of the many reasons relationships tend to disrupt my emotional flow. I have my own things to deal with. Taking on the baggage of someone else just seems like inviting disaster.

But then, finding someone to love youisconsidered a baser human instinct. For some reason.

Exiting the elevator, I walk down the hall swiftly, lest I wind up cornered by someone else on my floor who wants to talk about the weather or some inane thing we have no control over. Pushing open the glass door to my practice, though, it’s unavoidable.

“Dr. Love!” My assistant, Emily, chirps, expressing her ever-present enthusiasm. I can’t for the life of me decipher where she gets it all.She must cry a lot at night.“Back so soon?”

“Yes.” I grunt the word while sorting through a few handwritten messages she’s taken for me on her desk. Two colleagues inquiring about events, and one patient who’s running late.

“How was your lunch with Gabrielle?” she asks.

My eyes lift from the notes in my hand to hers. I say nothing, just stare at her for three Mississippis before going back to my work.

You know, the thing we shouldactuallybe focusing on, rather than frivolous relationship conversation.

“Is this it?” I ask her, turning toward my office.

“Oh, sorry! There was one more I was just writing down, but I wanted to ask you about it first because the man didn’t give a phone number, which I thought was odd, you know, since the whole point of leaving a message is leaving a means of contact, otherwise how else are you supposed to reach them back, right?”

My eyes narrow at her. That was all on one goddamn breath. I’ve never heard someone spew words the way Emily does. It’s almost medically fascinating.

“What’s the name?” I ask her, about the message.

“Oh, darn…” She frowns, and my head cocks. “I seem to have written it down wrong. He said something about requesting your services, but then my pen died, and he told me his name while I was searching for another one, so I scribbled something, but now I can’t read it.”

She holds up a note with a bunch of nonsense on it. I blink at the note. Then at her. Then back at the note.

Is this really my life?

“So then… you actually haveno notefor me?” I ask her, fully serious, glaring at her until she cowers.

“I’m so sorry, Dr. Love. I promise, I’ll figure it out and get it to you! I swear it!” She begins examining the note closely, as if she’ll somehow decode the scribbles like hieroglyphics.

Letting out an audible sigh, I walk away. “Get Callahan on the line, please.”