Regards,
Dr. Jenner Piscapault
There is a date stamp on it, but it doesn’t make sense. It’s only one year old. It would suggest I was here a year ago, which is impossible, considering I haven’t been out of Seattle in a year, apart from now. Someone else has a key? Is that possible? It doesn’t seem likely, considering the security here and level of friendship I clearly have with the man outside the door. I shake it off, pushing past the information. I need more answers than this. This has only raised questions.
Next I find an evaluation by the very same Dr. Jenner Piscapault. His write-up is technical, but from what I can comprehend, he is the psychiatrist in charge of determining a test subject’s mental health. The assessment is tricky to understand; words like diminished empathy, abnormal personality dimensions, disinhibition, and high psychoticism stand out as the most used. I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, but I understand the gist of it. The subject is a psycho, it’s fairly obvious. They don’t use the word, maybe afraid of labeling him or her. Or maybe all the words they keep repeating just mean psycho. I don’t know, but I can tell they aren’t the sort of words a person wants to have written about oneself.
Well, apart from one bit in the evaluation. The doctor found that test subject seven had remarkably low levels of narcissism for someone with such a lack of remorse or guilt.
She has a strong connection to animals. She refuses to kill them when she’s awake. The trauma from her childhood has stuck with her, and created psychosis. She sleepwalks, killing whatever comes into her path, even animals. When she wakes to find what she has done, the remorse returns. She cannot shake it when she discovers she has wronged an animal. She has become less attached to humans, though. She is the last test subject to assimilate to the cutting off of the emotional mind from the physical body. Permission has been granted to remove her from this test facility. She is to join him in a RL scenario testing. Dr. Angela O’Conner, from the United Kingdom, will be joining him. She specializes in this type of deep-cover, scenario-based training. It will be a controlled environment to further reach inside her.
My brain feels like it’s about to explode, but the cracking sound inside my head is from my heart. Even if, apparently, I don’t actually have one.
16. I WILL FREE YOU
The silence of the frosted-glass room is too much to endure when taking in knowledge such as this. I’m only about thirty percent sure I haven’t actually fallen asleep and dreamt the things I am reading. I turn back, looking at the man with his back to the door, and wonder what he is to me, the real me. The man-made girl who believed a thousand lies and trusted her heart to a master puppeteer.
I am Pinocchio, only my blue fairy turned out to be a scheming bastard who wanted to make me an assassin. I blink again, staring at the words expected date for reinsertion, but I am drawing a blank as to what it means. The date is set for three months from today.
Three months?
I don’t even think I can guess what it means, but I know it’s bad. It’s all bad. At the bottom of the box is a box of matches. I lift the folder with the random words, detailing things I won’t ever understand, and feel the weight of it in my hands. It’s heavy like a gun and a key and a secret are. It’s heavy like it contains every secret in the world, every whisper of treachery.
But it doesn’t. It contains only mine. Whispers of love and promises that he would take care of me.
I glance down into the bottom of the black metal bin, stunned when I see the words “I will free you.” They’re silver letters, scratched into the metal box.
One sentence.
I’m pretty sure I have an ulcer, and I’m positive this one sentence has flared it to a bad place. A place I might never heal from.
I turn, hurrying to the door, and bang on it.
He points at the box, shaking his head, and makes a weird motion with his hands. Clearly, he means I have to place the box back before the doors will open.
Of course . . .
I hurry back, stuffing the folder in the box and grabbing the box of matches. I don’t know if I am making a terrible decision or if I am following the instincts that are inside me. I light the match and drop it into the papers. They light quickly, so I cover the box slightly, only letting a bit of air into it. Smoke starts to billow, making me promptly regret doing it. I glance back, seeing the man, and wonder if he can tell I’m burning something. The smoke fills the room, making the frosted glass appear far more frosted than before.
I have to back away as the folder burns up; the smoke is too thick. I blink away the stinging in my eyes and hurry back to the box, pushing the lid down all the way and sliding it to the spot. The door opens on the back wall, pulling the box back into the wall.