Dying On My Own Terms

Kristal Gillespie POV:

The old t-shirt, a relic from a life I barely remembered, was thin and soft, but it still irritated the skin on my lower back. The itch grew, then sharpened into a dull ache. It was familiar. I knew this feeling. It was one of the many souvenirs Serenity Heights had given me. I gently touched the spot, feeling the raised, uneven scar tissue beneath the fabric. It was starting to throb. Infected, I thought, a cold dread seeping into my already weary bones.

I was just trying to find a pair of sensible shoes for work when the door to the guest room opened. Dozier. Again. He seemed to materialize out of thin air, his presence always so abrupt, so commanding.

My head snapped up, then down, my body tensing. He wasn't supposed to be here. He usually left early for work. What did he want? Was I doing something wrong?

He looked at the t-shirt, then at my back, his eyes narrowing. "What's that?" he asked, his voice low.

I instinctively hunched, trying to cover the spot. "Nothing," I mumbled, trying to sound dismissive, like it really was nothing.

But he wasn't buying it. He took a step closer, his gaze fixed on the fabric. A dark, damp stain was blooming on the faded cotton, a stark crimson against the pale blue. Blood. The infection was worse than I thought.

"Kristal," he said, his voice now flat, devoid of its usual impatience. "Let me see." It wasn't a request. It was an order.

My training kicked in. Obey. Always obey. With trembling hands, I slowly, reluctantly, lifted the hem of the t-shirt. The cool air hit my back, and with it, a fresh wave of pain.

The mirror on the wall reflected the sight. A jagged, angry scar snaked across my lower back, about six inches long. The edges were red and swollen, weeping a yellowish fluid. It was ugly. A testament to the days I had spent strapped down to a metal bed frame, the rough restraints chafing against my skin, the infection allowed to fester. They called it "restraint protocol." I called it torture.

Dozier gasped. A sharp, guttural sound that surprised me. He reached out, his fingers hovering over the wound, not quite touching. "What… what is that?" His voice was hoarse.

"A souvenir," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "From Serenity Heights. They called it 're-education.'"

His face drained of color. He looked from the wound to my blank expression, then back to the wound. He visibly swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Who… who did this to you?"

"It's just where the restraints rubbed," I explained, as if I were discussing the weather. "The metal bed frame was rough. They left you there for days if you were 'uncooperative.' It got infected. They didn't seem to care."

He didn't say anything for a long moment. His hand, which had been hovering, now gently touched the inflamed skin. A jolt, sharp and unwelcome, shot through me. I almost flinched, but I held still. No reaction. No weakness.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror, my own eyes devoid of any feeling. "Pain is just a signal," I said, reciting the mantra they had taught us. "You learn to ignore it. It's how you survive."

His hand dropped from my back. He stood there, frozen, his face a mask of dawning horror. I could almost see the pieces clicking into place in his arrogant, privileged mind. He had thought he was sending me to a place that would "fix" me, that would gently guide me back to sanity. He had paid for therapy, for a cure. Not for this. Not for a jagged scar that screamed of cruelty and neglect.

He turned away from me, walked to the bathroom, and returned with a first-aid kit. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he were underwater. He poured antiseptic onto a cotton ball, his hands trembling slightly. "Don't move," he said, his voice tight with suppressed emotion.

He carefully dabbed at the wound. The alcohol stung, a familiar fire, but I remained still. My eyes were focused on a chip in the paint on the wall. I felt nothing but a dull, distant awareness of the discomfort. My body was just a vessel, and this was just another repair.

Dozier finished, his touch surprisingly gentle as he applied a bandage. He didn't speak. He just stared at the bandage, then at my back, then at my face, searching for something, anything. But there was nothing there. The well of emotion inside me had long since dried up.

He had created this. This empty shell. And for the first time, I think he understood. The truth of Serenity Heights, the reality of what he had done, had finally landed. And it was terrifying.