Mattheos-no,
Henry's pov.
They're playing music.
In and out of consciousness, I can hear the faint sound of the lyrics. My vision is blurry as I try to make out what's happening, and I can hear the sound of medals clinking together, can make out the multiple figures in surgical masks, rubber gloves and weird suits.
I'm stuck paralyzed on the medical chair, stuck in place as I make out a doctor amping up the volume on a machine—a shock machine. I try to look down at myself and that's when I realize all the tubes sticking to my skin. My temples, my heart, my chest—from here, I can't see the rest.
I can't make out anything else but my fathers dressed figure watching me in the corner. I watch as he walks to me, as he looks into my eyes and examines what they're doing to me. I can hear him humming to the song, can hear him mumbling the lyrics.
The history book on the shelf is always repeating itself, is the last thing I hear before a gloved hand increases the power on the machine once more and I return to the dark.
—
October ninth, 1814
I'm sitting in a wooden chair made for a man, but I am only eleven years old.
The chair is too big, too uncomfortable, and sitting down for so long is wrinkling my newly tailored suit but I can't do anything but sit in this hallway thatis far too quiet for a building designed for crazy people. There's exactly 106 people here—including me and my dad. I know this because I have nothing else to keep me company but the numbers inside my head, a notebook, a pen. I have nothing to do but count the patients that come in and out of his office, nothing better than to stare blankly at the wall and play along with the faint ticking of the clock. No, there's nothing here worth writing, nothing worth drawing. Not until someone takes a seat next to me. Not until I realize that it's a girl my age.
I study her. I study her appearance, her breathing, her body language as she sits quietly next to me reading a copy of The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare. I study her intent eyes and the way she's keeping to herself, as if not wanting to accidentally touch me. I know my father told me not to talk to anyone, and I know I've never disobeyed him, but I've never made a friend before and I love that book and something makes me want to know if she does, too. So I do what I've watched my father do before and hold on my hand for a shake.
She blinks at my hand, then at me—and when her green eyes meet my blue ones, I can't stop myself from looking, from staring. Her eyes are strange, so strange. We stay that way before she smiles, and I think I falter. "Hi." She says.
Shit, I'm thinking. I should've said hi. Do other kids even use hand shakes anymore? But something tugs at the ends of my lips and I try to form a smile, but I don't know if I'm doing it right. I don't remember how to smile, so I fear I might accidentally be frowning at her. "Hi." I say back. "Where's your family?"
She shrugs, swinging her legs that don't yet touch the ground. "My mom just dropped me off here."
My eyebrows furrow, and I catch myself nervously picking at the new cut on my hand. "Did they leave you here?"
She stares down at her shoes, and instead of answering me, says "What are you doing here?"
I shrug. "I'm here with my dad. Are you here to see him?"
She stills. "Is your dad Mr. Ivan Vitiello?" I nod, so she says, "I was told to go to him."
I hum, but I can't help my curiosity. "Why are you here?" Only crazy people go here, is what I don't add. Surely, this pretty, innocent girl couldn't be like them, right?
Her pink lips part, and I think she's about to answer before the door next to me opens once more and patient 106 walks out with a white slip. Close behind her, my father walks out. He's wearing a suit similar to mine, but his isn't wrinkled like mine is. He walks out reading a clipboard before he eyes the girl next to me. He beams, but I know it's mostly an act he plays. It's an act, and yet, the interest he gives her seems genuine. "Ah! Rose, your parent's told me they'd drop you off."
He kneels, slightly, to reach her height. "I've been waiting for you for a very long time, sweetheart," He tells her and I can tell she's nervous. I can tell she's scared to be left with an unknown man in an unknown building by herself. She looks to me for help but I don't know if he's safe, either. I can't tell her it'll be alright, because I don't know if it will. I don't want to lie.
My dad looks at me as if finally acknowledging I'm there. He looks to me, and then to her. Slowly, he nods—as if realizing something. "I see you've already met Mattheo," He asks her. She nods, and it's a contrast to how she talked to me. My father must realize that because he asks, "Do you want him to accompany us?"
She's quiet for a while as she bites her lips that slightly tremble–and shit, I'm looking at her lips. I shouldn't be looking at a patient's lips. But I can't stop looking at hers. Finally, she says, "Yes."
He beams once more before standing up and holds out a hand for her to grasp. "Come, Mattheo." He says, "Meet patient 001. The first patient at Birch Psychiatric Hospital." In the first asylum of many, is what he doesn't add.
"Change the suctions on his head," I can hear my dads Russian accent. "Amplify the power."
"But sir, it could kill them." Another voice calls as I try I try desperately to open my eyes but I can't make out anything, can hardly hear anything over the roaring in my head.
"Maybe then it'll stop them." And then, it's black again.
October ninth, 1923.
"You're not supposed to talk to the patients." She tells me. "And you're not supposed to be in here."
"And you're not supposed to be alive." I tell her, shaking the packet in my hand in front of her once more. "Do you want the chocolate or not?"
She frowns and tries to keep her head held high, but I can see the exact moment when she gives in. My hypothesis—my first hypothesis about this strange, pretty girl? Every twelve year old has a soft spot for chocolate, no matter how insane. Once she finally takes the bar from my hands, I mentally add that to the list my father told me to make.
Patient 001;
Twelve years old.
Female.
Name is Lily.
Cries a lot.
Is scared, a lot.
Wants her parents.
Doesn't like me.
Doesn't like the syringes.
Likes chocolate.
I hold my hand out, and she stares at it as she takes a bite into the snickers bar. She stares at it for so long that I begin to get tired, and take it back. I clear my throat. "I'm Elliot. You were supposed to take my hand."
"I know." She says. "But you don't want to touch me."
I furrow my eyebrows, frowning at the innocent-looking girl on the patient chair. She wears a white hospital gown and tennis shoes. Her hair is perfectly smoothed and her eyes perfectly big. "Why wouldn't I want to touch you?"
"Because you'd get in trouble." She mutters. "If we break the rules, he'll get mad. If he gets mad—"
"I want to touch you." I interrupt her. "I put my hand out for you to touc. I don't care what happens if he sees."
She frowns. "Because you're not the one sitting in the patient chair."
"You're not the one that has to go home with him."
Her eyes widen. She's looking at me like she hasn't looked at me before, like I've just turned on the lights. "You're his–"
"Elliot!" I hear my fathers voice yell, the sound slightly muffled by the walls.
We stiffen, and I take a step away from her—from patient 001. I make my way to the door, but before I can go, I tell her this, "Can I bring you some tomorrow?"
"I don't want to be caught." She says.
"I won't let you." I promise her. She considers my offer, and when I hear my name being yelled once more, she nods before I leave.
I can hear the beeps, can feel the shake in the bed, can feel the hot wires that surround me—tangled in my limbs. "What's your name?" My fathers voice asks.
"Henry?" I guess.
I hear a sigh before I'm shocked again. Suctions on every muscle of the body, I realize. 600 suctions. From smallest to biggest, I'm shocked again and again.
October ninth, 1988.
I've known this girl for seven years. I've observed, studied, and learned about her over five years. I've started to develop an unhealthy obsession over the past three years. I've tried to ask her out for the past year. But today, for the first time, my path crosses with hers.
Quite literally too, because I'm kneeling down trying to help her pick up her books and shes sporting a scowl, rubbing her forehead. "Kai." She says, her tone annoyed. "I'm capable of picking them up myself."
All I can think of is fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking fuck. She knows my name? "Adeline" Is all I can say because this isn't good, this isn't fucking good. "I know you're capable, but I'm helping you anyway."
"This could've been avoided if you'd watch where you're going next time." She tells me as she reaches out for a book the same time I do. She's holding the side as I hold the other and we make eye contact. Her green eyes narrow down at me and all I can think is if I look good. Did I wear my nice suite today? Did I bother brushing out my hair? Is my tie straight? Am I even wearing one? "Kai?" She asks, confused. "My book?"
"Huh?" I ask before reality seeps in. "Oh, right." I say, handing her the book—a copy of The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare. I look at the book for a moment, as she pats the dust off of her skirt. "The devil can cite scriptures for his purpose." I quote.
"An evil soul producing holy witness." She finishes, walking away. Is my chest supposed to be beating like that? It shouldn't, I don't think. Do other people walk around with their hearts this heavy? It can't be healthy. Especially for the girl I've just been assigned to kill just a month ago. This isn't going to end well for me, is it?
"What's your name, boy?" A voice I asks me.
"I-I don't know." My voice chokes.
"Mattheo," he says. "Your name is Mattheo."
October ninth, 2014.
I don't think she sees me. I don't think she realizes there's someone else in the room as she's frantically trying to pick up her case file, as she tries to breathe through her nose, as she tries not to panic. No, I don't think she realized I was there. Not until I was already kneeling in front of her, helping her pick up the evidence cards. She tries to tell me she can, but stops midway. Stops as she eyes the color of my suit and frowns. "You're a Yale boy."
I raise my eyebrow, looking down at her short red skirt. "And you're a Harvard girl."
And I could swear, I knew it even then—that my soul would never recover from her. Souls don't meet by accident, do they?
"What's going on?" I ask into a blurry void. I can make out the figure of a man–but there's three of him.
Six hands, three faces, but one voice as he asks, "What's your name?"
"Mattheo." I tell him, confused. "My name is Mattheo Vitiello."
Three smiles. "Welcome back, son."
—
"You were engineered, Henry. Conceived as a chess piece. Planned." A voice tells me.
"Why?" I ask, frustrated at the world. "For what?"
"To kill the monster," it tells me. "But you fell in love with her instead."
I frown. "I miss her."
"You're dead."
"Even in death, I mourn her."
"She will kill you for all that she makes you feel," the voice emphasizes, as if begging me to listen. As if begging me to say no when it asks, "Do you wish to continue?"
And I say, "Yes." Because my black heart breaks for all the versions of me that haven't died by her hands. Because that girl they call a monster saved me. Because a girl born with the devil in her made a boy who laid in bed with a gun pressed to his temple—a boy who quite literally couldn't wait to die—live. She makes me want to live if it means being with her.
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Idk if I did a good job at writing out my thoughts but I hope you enjoyed it anyway !! Pls lmk your thoughts and don't forget to vote + comment <3
(PS all the Spotify playlists, Pinterest boards, tiktoks abt this book make me so happy ily)