given moment, I could waver dramatically between the two explanations, which creates quite the schizophrenic existence.
Two male orderlies dressed in white hover in the dining hall, listening to every word we speak, watching as we eat. In unspoken agreement, the brothers and I focus on our food and keep conversation to a minimum.
When Nurse Evil returns and jerks me upright with an iron grip, Dean and Declan both stand and growl at her. Normally it’s Declan who flies off the handle but right now Dean looks ready to tear her head off. "Don't. Touch. Her." He hisses the words through clenched teeth, and the threat is clear.
The nurse doesn’t respond to him, but she drops my arm and pushes me forward. "The doctor is waiting for you."
I squeeze Dean's hand as I leave, trying to communicate with him that I'll be okay.
I'm ready to face the good doctor. I'm also ready for some god damn answers.
My palms are sweaty as I push open Dr. Livingstone's office door.
But every speech I've mentally practiced dies on my lips when I see what he has on his desk.
I take a seat, my eyes glued to the macabre scene my brushstrokes re-created yesterday, and he studies me with an intensity that sends goosebumps up my arms.
"Is this truly what you saw when you were asked to paint the still-life?" he asks, gesturing to my painting.
I nod, my throat too dry to speak.
He sits across from me and hands me a cup of water. "Celeste, how could you have seen this?"
"Would it have been better if I'd drawn you drinking from a blood bag like the vampire you are?" I ask, spitting my words at him like bullets.
He freezes at my words, his body so motionless he could be a statue or a wax sculpture of himself.
"Why would you think that?" he asks after a long beat of silence.
"Isn't it true? That you're a vampire? That everyone in this place is some kind of monster?"
He cocks his head, leaning forward. "Is that how you see yourself? As a monster?"
"Don't pull that shrink shit on me, Doc. I think after what I've been through, I'm owed some real answers."
Dr. Livingstone glances at my painting again, his face hardening. "Do you know what you drew here?"
"You." I say. "Dead."
He sighs. "Yes. You drew my death. Before I was turned. You drew my past. But I don't understand how you could have known this."
I feel the blood drain out of my face this time. "So this really happened? And you truly believe you're a vampire?”
“I am.”
“You're just as crazy as you claim we are," I say, standing. "I'm outta here."
I stalk to the door and reach for the knob, but his hand on my wrist stops me. He's cold, like me. But his touch sends a zing of fire through my body, and I can't stop myself from turning around to face him. "What do you want with me?" I ask, the desperation in my voice making me cringe.
"I…I don't know," he admits. "I want to help you. To heal you."
"From what? What do I need to be healed from?" I ask, pinning him down with my hard gaze.
He doesn't let go of my wrist, but his caress is soft, gentle. I could pull away if I wanted to, but I don't.
"You tried to take your life, Celeste. I want to help you find a reason to live it," he says, his expression tender and heartbreaking.
“This coming from an undead,” I snap.
“This coming from an undead,” he agrees.
The pain in his gaze is a reflection of my own and, for a split second, I recognize him for what he is: a kindred spirit. He, too, has wished for death. He, too, had to reimagine his future.
"What is this place really?" I ask, calmed by what I see in him. "If you want me to trust you, start by telling me the whole truth."
He sighs and nods, his shoulders slumping. "I will. But first, I want to show you something."
My curiosity piqued, I move to the side as he opens his office door and leads me down the hall and towards the dungeons that have been my prison since arriving here.
"You asked me to look into your lodging," he says as we walk. "I did. And I want you to see for yourself the truth."
I frown, confused. If he truly looked into it, he would know the kind of conditions we're being kept in. And if he's the kind