of man I think he is, he would be angry. Why doesn't he seem angry?
"This place was started as a safe haven for those with…supernatural conditions that could put themselves or others in danger." He glances at me, his eyes full of secrets and sadness. "You're right when you called me a vampire. I was turned many years ago after a violent and bloody death. And now, I can only survive on the blood of other humans."
I shiver. Hearing him confess to this so clearly is almost worse than the lies. "Why would you force us to paint you drinking from blood bags?" I ask. It may not have been what I saw, but it's still creepy as hell.
His body tenses at the question. "I wasn't even there," he says. "You should have all been painting a still life of a fruit bowl. That's it."
"But that's…impossible," I say, pausing in the hallway. "That's not what—" I stop, not wanting to speak about Dean and Declan, lest I get them in trouble.
Behind the doctor, the specter of my twin appears, and a chill steals through me, freezing me bone deep.
Keep your secrets inside you, her voice says into my mind. He shows you lies wrapped in truth and truth wrapped in lies.
Thanks, sis. That's super clear.
"Celeste, are you ill?" The doctor reaches for my hand and flinches. "You're freezing." He pulls off the cardigan he wears and drapes it over my shivering shoulders. His hand lingers on the fabric as if he’d rather pull me against him to warm me with his embrace. But he doesn’t.
"I'm fine," I say through chattering teeth. "It's just drafty."
He glances sideways at me as I start to walk again.
"If you're really trying to help people here, why torture them?" I ask.
Dr. Livingstone shakes his head. "There's never been any torture, Celeste. That's what I'm trying to tell you. People born like you, people like me and the others here, it can make you mentally unwell. It's a kind of corruption of the blood that poisons the mind. We are trying to fix that. To help you all."
What does he mean people born like me?
"So you're crazy too?" I ask.
He shrugs. "There's madness in all of us, but I've learned to control it. It's what Le Rêve was created for. To help you control it, so you're no longer a threat to yourself or others."
"This seems a very extreme way of going about it. Yes, I tried to take my life because of what happened to my sister, but I'm not a threat to others. Regular therapy in a proper setting would have been sufficient. There's no need for this Lovecraftian horror show."
The doctor pauses in the hallway, just before the entrance to the dungeon. He turns me towards him, his hands holding mine, his gaze penetrating. "So you believe we have mistreated you?"
I scoff. "Yes. Obviously."
"In what ways specifically?" he asks.
This feels like a trick question, but I can't imagine why. The horrors are pretty damn clear. "I've been locked in a freezing cage. Starved. Left without access to a proper bathroom or plumbing. Slapped. Hit. Forced into some pretty deranged art therapy. I've been denied any kind of outside contact with anyone from my life." I cock my head, staring at him. "That's a lot for starters, don't you think?"
"I can't imagine the pain you're in," he says sadly, his expression unreadable but his voice dripping with heartbreak. "I know this must be so confusing. It must be impossible to know how to process all you've been through. That's why I'm here, Celeste. I want to help you. To give you hope. But the first step is seeing the truth."
I yank my hands from his and cross my arms over my chest. "That's the point I've been trying to make since I got here," I say stubbornly. "No one's telling me the truth. You’re all lying, and it's not helping anyone here, least of all me. If your aim is to heal me, you're doing a shit job of it."
Dr. Livingstone presses his lips together. "Celeste, what will I find when I unlock this door and go downstairs to your room?"
I narrow my eyes at him. "A medieval style dungeon that's cold and dirty. A cot with a threadbare blanket. A bucket to piss in. Rats. You know, the standard dungeon shit."
He nods and turns to open the door.
I walk behind him smugly prepared for his horror when he realizes how we've been treated.