Ch.66: Visiting Hours

The antiseptic bite of the prison ward is a familiar ghost, but this time, the heavy iron doors remain open behind me.

I walk past the armed guards, my heels clicking a steady, rhythmic cadence against the linoleum. I am wearing a high collar and a silk scarf, but I have left the veil at home. I don't need to hide anymore. The world has seen the truth, and the truth has a jagged, red edge.

I reach the end of the hall, a private unit behind reinforced glass.

Dr. Aris Vane is lying there.

He isn’t dead. I didn't let him die. The explosion at the manor had been localized to the sub-basement and the lab; the panic room had done its job too well, shielding him from the blast even as it trapped him in a tomb of his own design.

I step into the room.

The hum of the life-support machines is the only sound. It’s a rhythmic, mechanical sigh—the same sound I lived with for seventy days.

Aris is a sculpture of scar tissue and stillness. The diamond dust had done its work; his eyelids were gone, cauterized by the chemical rain and the frantic clawing of his own hands. His eyes, milky and white with permanent cataracts, stare vacantly at the ceiling.

He doesn't move. He can't.

The massive overdose of Rocuronium I’d administered, combined with the neurotoxic smoke he’d inhaled before the rescue crews found him, had triggered a permanent state of Locked-In Syndrome.

His brain is perfectly functional. His thoughts are as sharp as the scalpels he used to hold. But the wires are cut. He is a ghost in a machine made of meat.

I pull a chair to the side of the bed. I lean forward, my face just inches from his.

I want him to see me. I want him to perceive the ruin he made of my skin, even if it is just a blur of light and shadow in his dead eyes.

"Visiting hours, Aris," I whisper.

A flicker of movement. Not in his limbs, but in his pupils. They pin-point, reacting to the sound of my voice.

"The doctors tell me you're a medical marvel," I say, my voice smooth and clinical. "Total paralysis. Complete cognitive awareness. You can hear every word I say. You can feel the air from the vents on your skin. You can feel the itch on your nose that you will never be able to scratch."

I reach out and touch the IV line. I run my fingers along the plastic tubing, feeling the cool flow of the maintenance drip.

"The Janus investors wanted to turn off the machines," I continue. "They said you were a liability. A broken tool. They wanted to settle the 'breach of contract' by liquidating the assets. Starting with you."

I lean closer, my breath hitching in my chest. This is the moment I’ve waited for. The satisfaction is a cold, sharp blade in my stomach.

"I didn't let them. I used your own money, Aris. I hired the best lawyers in the country. I fought for your right to life. I told them that as your wife, I could never allow my husband to be murdered by a corporation."

I smile. It’s a tight, painful pull on my scar tissue.

"I'm keeping you alive. Just like you did to me."

He thrashes internally. I can see it in the monitor. His heart rate spikes—110, 120, 130.

The alarm on the EKG begins to chirp.

*Beep-beep-beep.*

"You recognized that sound, didn't you?" I ask. "The sound of a body panicking. The sound of a mind trying to scream when the throat is made of stone."

I stand up and walk to the end of the bed. I pick up his chart.

"I’ve ordered the nurses to keep the lights on twenty-four hours a day," I say. "Since you have no eyelids, it’s only fair that you get to see everything. I wouldn't want you to miss a single second of your recovery."

I put the chart back.

"I'll be back tomorrow. And the day after. And every day for the next forty years. I’m going to make sure they never increase your sedative. I want you to be very, very present for this."

I turn toward the door, then stop. I look back over my shoulder at the statue on the bed.

"Do you want to say something, Aris? Do you want to ask for mercy?"

I wait. The room is silent except for the sigh of the ventilator.

"Blink once for yes," I say. "Twice for no."

I watch his milky, lidless eyes.

A single, slow contraction of the ocular muscle. The pupil shivers.

He blinked once for no.