𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐀 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

XXIV

I knew it couldn't be him, but I silently wished it was. I always hallucinated him without meaning to, especially in the psych ward. I always imagined his voice, his comfort touch. I forced my eyes open, but they were met with gray blues. Just like Henrys. Only, it wasn't Henry. It was Maxim Vitiello, Henry's father. And he was staring directly at me. "Refil her sedatives." He said, in a haunted voice and that's when I blacked.

THE EXAMINATION OF JANE IVERS
Taken on December twenty-four, 2022
Birch Psychiatric Hospital.
66732 Manhattan, New York.
Video transcript time: 3:57 a.m.
Examination by Dr. Isabella Martinez
ISABELLA: Jane?
JANE: What's wrong with me?
ISABELLA: So much. Everything. Everything is messed up with you.
JANE: Are you fixing it?
ISABELLA: Yes. If you cooperate, Jamie–
JANE: I'm not Jamie.
ISABELLA: Right, sorry.
JANE: Are we almost done? I just want this to be over.
ISABELLA: I'm almost done stitching you back up, honey.
JANE: What day is it?
ISABELLA: Merry Christmas.
[End video examination 4:00]

The next time I awoke, the stitches were gone and tubes were no longer inside my body. I had healed once more, and I should be happy, I should, but it angers me. It angers me that there's no proof on my body, that it leads me to think I'm making it up. It angers me that they can do anything they want and get away with it. I know the violation I felt, the hopelessness I felt. I know that and yet, there's no trace of mistreatment.No evidence but a medicated girls word. Was Henry's father even here? I don't know. I know, and I try to believe my mind, but there's that doubt that's always there.

Dr. Martinez walks into my room, and she shuffles through a few papers of my brain taken by the MRI scan. She's circling, annotating, writing post it margins across the skeletal like picture. A man in a suit walks in, and I can tell by the black hair and blue eyes who he is, but I wait until Dr. Martinez–until anyone else acknowledges his presence to deem him as real. When Dr. Martinez turns to him and they talk, I want to feel relieved that I didn't dream him up, but just why is he here? Everything is so confusing, and I'm so, very, tired.

I'm sat up on a chair, my arms, legs, waist, and neck strapped to it. I'm wearing a white hospital gown and when Maxim walks up to me to examine me, my eyes meet with his. And although they're the same shade as Henry's, there's something different about his. Something darker, cooler. His gaze holds no humanity, no softness, no care. I imagine this is what others might feel on the receiving end of one of Henry's stares.

"She healed." He tells my therapist. "We cut her up to pieces, sewed her back on incorrectly, and still, she healed." He shakes his head, and his eyes meet mine. "Fascinating thing you are."

So that wasn't my imagination, either? I knew it. "If her cells can rebuild themselves against so many odds, is there a way she could do the opposite?" He asks. "Can she manipulate cells to her will?"

"I'm not sure, but if you have a test subject ready we can try to test it out." She replies, but when she looks at just how intently I'm staring at Mr. Vitiello, she stops. "Jane? Do you recognize Maxim?"

I shrug my shoulders as much as I can with the restraints. "I've seen you around TV, in the news, at a few events." My tongue feels numb, and my voice is raspy from the lack of food or water. "I go to school with your son." I tell him.

His brows knit together. "Do you now?"

I nod. "Henry Vitiello." I tell him, and I look over his shoulder, as if by some miracle he's here. It's christmas day, and he's supposed to be here by nightfall. I still imagine his presence, his touch, his reassurance. I still hear his voice in my head–it talks over all the others.

"Is that so?" He asks, stiffing.

I nod. I was sedated, yes, but not so sedated that I'd forget his name. I'd sooner rather forget my own. Henry, I almost say, almost ask where he is, but I know better. I know better than to give away that we're close. I just needed to hear him say he believes in me.