The following night, Alex ate alone on the late shift in the cafeteria. The one for men who weren't going out on jobs, or men who avoided sleep. Alex had already been sleeping most of the day and he needed to feel like he hadn't abandoned his routine entirely. Some face time with Nick would have cheered him up. It was odd to think that for one moment, he and Octavia had been closer than they'd ever been, and with a few calculated moves, he'd killed any chance of it happening ever again.
The late group got cold sandwiches. The smell of hot food still lingered, lasagna perhaps, but the trays had long since been washed and stacked away in the kitchen racking, so Alex took unenthusiastic bites of ham and cheese on white bread. His jaw ached.
He felt her in his peripheral vision. She had entered the room several minutes after him and left many tables between them, but the pull of her presence felt stronger than gravity. She'd cringed when she sat down, courtesy of the puncture wounds in her abdomen. Alex had done that. He looked down at his hand holding the sandwich, but – though Brian assured him there was no concussion – he couldn't remember firing the taser. In his brain, it was just one in a series of events. Maybe he was confused and had it wrong; maybe Nick had done it. There was a chance, however minute, that he hadn't taken the ugliest idea he'd heard from Victor's mouth and chosen to bring it to life.
Her hair was still wet from a shower. It hung like a curtain, shielding her from the men on either side. It obscured any expression she might have been making.
He'd blown it. There had been a forking path in front of him, family on one side and helping what he hoped was a friend on the other, and he'd just sort of put his hand over his eyes and stumbled down the first available. There was no telling right from wrong because he couldn't judge what kindnesses would harm her, or what cruelties might save her. And just as Alex let his eyes linger a bit too long in her direction, she looked up at him and he forgot. All of it, everything. He forgot the bruises and her drinking, the way she mutilated food more than she ate it. Even now, there wasn't a sandwich on her plate. There were the components of a sandwich: torn chunks of ham and cheese with the mayonnaise scraped away at the edge of her plate. It looked like she'd just eaten bread. He forgot the way her wit sometimes grew sharp and hurt him. He almost forgot to breathe. She was blue eyes, rounded with black eyelashes and underneath, white-washed freckles, and he wanted to kiss her again but it was impossible.
Octavia pressed a fist-tightened napkin onto her plate. There was a clatter as she pushed the dishes away and left the room.
Nick approached from the food line and made himself at home across the table from Alex. He didn't look concerned about whether or not he was invited. His plate had a hot steak on it.
"How come you're not eating a sandwich?" Alex asked.
Nick shrugged, poked a serrated knife into his steak and carved a piece loose. He shoveled it into his mouth but kept talking anyway. "You know what they say, friends in low places."
"Shouldn't it be high places?"
"You would think," Nick replied. "I slipped one of the lifers a fifty."
Alex slid aside the remains of his sandwich. "Should we apologize to her?"
"That depends." He took another bite of steak. "Do you apologize every time you do a good job? 'Dom, I am so sorry about hitting that target on the first try. I understand that when I aim for perfection – literally – I harm the morale of those around me. I mean, come on. Leave something for the rest of us to aspire to, right?' Just give her some time. Also, how in the hell are you doing? You took a sound beating from the frail woman you're so worried about."
"I'm fine," Alex said. "I'm discovering that there might still be love after getting punched in the head with a Berreta."
Nick wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "And that is where you're alone."
#
Alex picked up a small gift from the kitchen and left Nick to finish his ill-gotten steak. It didn't seem right, having to sit there and smell it and look at it while eating a lousy sandwich. Besides, Alex's appetite had begun to turn. He wanted to go see her. He hadn't even made it to the stairwell when his uncle appeared from his office.
"I didn't get a chance to congratulate you the other night," he said.
This wasn't helping. Seeing his uncle, tired but pleased with himself, giving up the day with his tie undone and stubble on his face, only served to remind him of the path he'd stumble-chosen. "I'm just heading to bed," Alex told him.
"Hold on," Dominic replied, and smiled with undeserved encouragement. "I saw that you left me your keys last night, and I appreciate it."
Alex didn't have much recollection of that. There had been pain medication and a possible concussion involved.
"But I want you to keep them. You've earned them."
If it weren't for the new, cold weight in his palm, he might not have believed the moment occurred. He looked down at his keys, confused, then back up at Dominic, whose gaze was different. Respectful. "Thanks," he said.
A hand clapped him on the shoulder. "So. Did you tell yourself she wasn't real?"
#
When Alex knocked at her door, Octavia didn't answer, despite the fact that she was likely awake. It was an unfair thought, but she'd used up her supply of pills, hadn't she? With the novelty of his keys back in his possession, he let himself in.
The room was dark, save for a three-sided rectangle. It was the glowing edge of the bathroom door left ajar. Raul had mentioned that a new door was brought in, but Alex had feigned indifference at the time. It was enough that he'd been passing the front desk when the old one went out in a busted mess. It couldn't even be called a door anymore, considering how many pieces it was in. Alex didn't want to picture how it got that way.
He waited for his eyes to adjust, afraid that she already sat in the bed, or nearby, and would call him out for intruding. From the bathroom came the quietest whooshing sound. He couldn't attribute it to anything logical. It sounded like fingers gliding over a countertop.
It wasn't too late to leave. He could go out and knock again, louder, announce himself properly. But then, it wasn't a gliding sound. It was a tearing sound. Slicing. In his brain it was Nick cutting his steak and eating it like a caveman, and the oddness of it drew Alex in. "Octavia?" he asked.
The narrow strip of the bathroom grew larger, closer. The white edge of the sink top in disarray, toothbrush and paste and soap scattered next to the bowl. There was a partial view of the toilet and the white tile floor and between it, Octavia's bent knee. She was sitting cross-legged. He came closer still, tilting his head to look, and one pant leg had been rolled up to expose most of her pale, lower leg. There was a row of short, vertical cuts from the middle of her calf to her ankle and blood rose in matching lines, weeping across her leg. In one fist, she held a cafeteria knife.
His fingertips smacked the door open before he could consider his options. The door swung in a lazy arc, but she was staring, trance-like, at the sliced skin.
"What on earth are you doing?" He'd been expecting to apologize, to humble himself. She had succeeded, proving her worth to the only person down there with any power. She was supposed to be self-righteous. She was supposed to be confident.
Octavia snapped to life, uncrossing her legs and folding her knees to her chest. "How did you get in here?" She held the knife out in front of her in a shaky defensive stance.
Alex shoved the door the remaining few inches and stepped inside, kneeling down and grabbing impulsively for the knife. Her free hand locked on his forearm and she tried to wrestle for it with what muscle she had. He was disappointed to find no signs of self-righteousness on her face, in the dark circles under her eyes. Alex was a kid with a wounded bird in a shoebox on that inevitable day when he realizes the bird isn't getting any better; it's dying. "What..." he sputtered. "Why would you do this?" He wasn't willing to risk hurting her with more force, so they froze in a temporary draw, arms tense and shaking.
"You can't have it," she spat. "This is the last thing I have and it's mine."
"What are you talking about?"
"You've taken it. You people have taken everything. I can't sleep, I can't eat. I do everything you tell me to do. I don't even think my own thoughts." Her voice went thin and she had to pause, as if she pushed it through a throat that had grown too tight. "I didn't think anything could be worse than my life before this, but you've done it. You've achieved the impossible. You should all be patting yourselves on the back."
"Wait a second—" Alex began.
"At least Victor thought he was in love with me. Even when he was wrong, he was honest. Dominic thinks I'm some kind of slot machine that cashes out if he just keeps bashing away at it, and Nick acts like he's showing me around a normal job. He's teaching me like if I just pay attention and try hard enough, I'll get the hang of killing people. And you!" She had to stop, swallowing painfully. "You think I'm on a light switch or something, like I have feelings when you've done something nice and maybe the rest of the time, I don't notice. I won't feel it. I feel all of it." She wiped her face roughly against her shoulder without letting go of the knife. "All of it."
"Octavia—"
"I have given you assholes everything. I thought I'd killed someone, but you tricked me. And my great reward, every night, is not being killed. But also, not being let go."
Alex tried to take the knife more deliberately, but her muscles contracted and she held fast.
"This is the last part of me. The last bit of control I have."
On her calf, blood beading along the white skin. "Mutilation?" he asked incredulously.
She dropped some of the tension in her arms, exhausted, and leaned back against the wall. "Decompression. If you take it away, there's no release valve."
"You think I approve of the things we did to you? I wanted to let you go that first night."
"You brought me here."
His voice came, strong and angry, in his ears. "Victor brought you here. He'd made plans for you, remember? Him and Dominic, but I told you to ask for work. I tried to keep you away from him. I cared – I still care what happens to you. I can't apologize for what other people have done, but I do regret my role in it. I'm trying to help you survive. When you need clothes or necessities, when you need someone to talk to, I'm here for you. When you need—" he paused, remembering the small bottle of vodka he'd taken from the kitchen and set it next to her on the tile with a clink. His voice softened with shame. "Quit reminding me that I brought you here."
She gave it a long, quiet look. "Is this like the pills?"
"There are no more tests," he replied. "I designed that one for you, not as a taunt, but because I knew you could outsmart it. You took on two trained assassins and came out the other side. Did you ever think you'd be able to say that about yourself?"
"You went easy on me."
"Octavia..." The guilt rushed up on him and his eyes watered. "I shot you with a taser. You walked out of that room with fewer injuries than I did. You walked out of that place like a mother-fucking superhero."
She chuckled. He wanted to laugh too, but his face was still tender from the clapboard sign.
"That doesn't mean there won't be other challenges. You still have to take your first assignment," he said. "You'll have to do it for real. I'm sorry for everything, I am, but you are almost there. Can you...push through for just a little longer?"
She turned to her injured leg, streaking the blood with her fingers all the way to her bony, white ankles.
Alex straightened, moving to leave. He couldn't help but worry. She'd drain the bottle, but it wasn't large; she'd forget to treat the cuts on her leg, but she wouldn't bleed much. It was the reason drunks survived their own car accidents – they weren't conscious enough to panic. The slices, like everything, would eventually heal and be forgotten.
"Can you leave my key?" she asked.
"I'm sorry?"
Her clean hand closed over the bottle, dragging it closer across the tiles. "If this is a show of good faith, then I'd like my room key."
"I'm not the only person that has one," he reminded her. "And it doesn't mean that no one can get in, just that you can get out."
"I know."
He thought a moment, then removed the key from his ring and set it next to the vodka. It still wasn't right, leaving her alone, but he didn't know what else to do. At least he could leave and take the knife with him. "Does this mean you'll forgive me?" he asked.
Octavia tilted her head back. She smeared her bloodied finger across the tops of her cheeks, like war paint.