Ch.8: The Rat

The door at the top of the stairs slams open, vibrating the floorboards above my head.

"Greta?"

The voice is Aris. It’s sharp, edged with panic.

Heavy footsteps hammer down the wooden stairs. He isn't wearing his velvet slippers now. He is barefoot.

I stare at the tube. The clear liquid of the new dose has crossed the line. It is entering the catheter.

The cold rush hits my neck.

*Four seconds.*

That’s all I have before the chemical shackles snap back into place.

I force my arm to go limp. I arrange it by my side, fingers uncurled, palm up. The pose of a corpse.

*Three seconds.*

I empty my lungs. I shallow the breath until my chest barely rises. I fix my eyes on a stain on the ceiling tile.

*Two seconds.*

The Rocuronium hits the heart. It pumps out to the extremities. I feel the heaviness return, a lead blanket settling over my muscles. The twitch in my pinky dies.

*One second.*

Aris bursts into the room.

He is holding a silver pistol—a Sig Sauer P230. It looks small in his hand, almost like a toy, but the muzzle is black and very real.

He scans the room, the gun sweeping in a wide arc. He is panting slightly. He is wearing only silk pajama bottoms. His chest is bare, smooth, and perfect.

"Who's there?" he barks.

Silence answers him.

The monitor beeps steadily behind me. *58 BPM.*

I am the perfect patient. I am the vegetable.

He walks toward the bed. He doesn't look at me; he looks past me, checking the corners, the shadows behind the oxygen tanks.

"I heard glass," he whispers.

He steps into the puddle of saline. The cold liquid must shock his bare feet, because he jumps back, aiming the gun at the floor.

He sees the shattered remains of the vial.

"What the hell..."

He looks at the tray table. He sees the empty spot where the vial used to be.

He looks at me.

His eyes narrow. The blue irises are ice chips. He studies my face—the raw muscle, the unblinking eyes, the slack jaw.

"Elena?"

He says my name like a test. Like a trap.

He steps closer. The gun lowers, but his finger stays on the trigger.

"Did you do this?"

I don't answer. I can't. The paralysis is total again. I am locked in.

He reaches out and grabs my wrist—the one I used to smash the glass. He lifts it. It is dead weight. He shakes it, looking for resistance, looking for tone.

There is none. It flops like a wet fish.

He drops it. It hits the mattress with a heavy thud.

He isn't satisfied.

He walks to the foot of the bed. He grabs the metal frame and kicks it. Hard.

The bed jolts. My body slides a fraction of an inch.

*Beep... beep... beep.*

The heart rate doesn't change.

"You're in there, aren't you?" he hisses. "You're trying to play games."

He walks around to the side of the bed. He is standing right next to my head. I can smell him—expensive soap and the metallic tang of gun oil.

He looks down at the floor. A large shard of glass, curved and jagged, lies inches from the wheel of the bed.

He places his bare foot on it.

He doesn't step on it. He nudges it. He slides it across the concrete until it is right next to my face. The sharp point is aimed at my eye.

"Reflexes are the last thing to go," he murmurs. "Even in a coma. The reptilian brain still wants to protect the eyes."

He lifts his foot. He positions his heel directly over the glass shard.

If he stomps, the shard will fly up. It will slice into the exposed ocular muscle. It might blind me.

My brain screams. *Close your eyes. Turn your head.*

But the drug holds me. The chemistry is absolute.

I stare at the ceiling. I stare at the stain. I dissolve into the grey.

"Let's see," he says.

He brings his heel down.

*CRUNCH.*

The glass pulverizes under his weight. A fine dust sprays into the air. A tiny, razor-sharp fragment flies up and nicks the raw meat of my cheek, just below the socket.

I feel the sting. A hot, sharp bite.

But I do not blink. I do not flinch. I do not breathe.

Aris watches me. He waits for the tear. He waits for the pupil to dilate.

Nothing happens.

He exhales, a long, shaky breath. He lowers the gun completely.

"Rats," he mutters. "Basement is full of them."

He wipes his foot on the sheet, brushing off the glass dust. He looks disgusted. Not by what he almost did, but by the mess.

"Greta needs to set traps," he says, turning away. "Can't have vermin chewing on the merchandise."

He walks to the door. He pauses, looking back one last time.

"Sleep tight, darling."

He flips the light switch. The room plunges into darkness, save for the green glow of the pump.

The door closes. The lock clicks.

I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding. The sting on my cheek throbs, a small, burning reminder of how close I came.

He didn't see me flinch. I've become a master of playing dead.