Fate's Mask - Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Mikhail forced himself to visit his twin once a week.

He wasn't sure why he did it – relatives were "strongly encouraged" to forget about patients, and visits were rarely allowed. And yet somehow, once a week, Mikhail found himself in front of the asylum's side door, some of his mother's delicious fried cactus in to. His mother had taken the news passively as she lay in bed, recovering from a bad fall caused by a "monstrous intruder." She hadn't reacted much beyond a small moue of acknowledgment.

Somehow, that had only added to the bundle of guilt in Mikhail's gut. It roiled and boiled like snakes in a basket, leaving him constantly sick and nauseated, and he didn't even want to think about the state his mother was falling into. He didn't think he could handle throwing two family members into an asylum of admittedly low repute.

But regardless, he worked out a deal with one of the nurses at the asylum – he'd give her some of his mother's cooking, and she'd give him sedatives and viewing sessions. The sedative was for himself – they were what made the visits tolerable to hit heart and stomach.

They had a routine, Mikhail and the nurse. He would arrive, slinking in by the side door, and she would be nearby, waiting with keys and cups of drugs.

"The usual?" she'd ask. And he'd nod, agree out loud.

"Yeah."

She'd hand him a small cup with the clear, bitter liquid that was his savior, and he'd down it quickly before following her through the winding halls of the asylum. Without her, he'd not only get terribly lost in the hallways, but terribly sick in the hallways on top of that.

Every time, she would warn him. She seemed to care naught for their society's rules – they spoke freely with each other, when they ever did, not caring for boundaries or imposing common law.

"It has to stop," she'd begin, and he'd nod in agreement, trailing behind her and waiting for the medicine to take effect. "Soon. And he can't know. Ever. Don't knock, don't reveal yourself. And stop. Soon."

Mikhail would just nod and follow her instructions, but he wouldn't stop. He knew that for a fact. He wouldn't allow himself to, just as the snakes in his stomach wouldn't allow him to. So he'd keep going back to that little one way window, keep going back to watching his brother waste away.

Sometimes, on the worse days, what he saw would make his usually hardened heart clench.

Jacobi would be pacing the room, or hitting the walls, or hitting the bed, or even hitting himself. The worst times were when Jacobi was crying.

Mikhail would watch, emotions plain on both of their faces, as Jacobi would just sit and bawl. Sometimes there were cries mixed in, of innocence and anger and hate, but all too often they melded with the cries and wails and pleas of the other patients.

Occasionally, their faces would match, as tears of Mikhail's would leak out. He was so ashamed by them – he was, after all, supposed to be a man. Tough, imposing, stoic. But as he watched his brother suffer because of his own doing, he couldn't help the emotion that tore at his heart and stomach.

Then there would be a point where it would be too much, and he would wrench his gaze away from the window, hurriedly wiping any stray moisture that had gathered and hand the bag to the nurse.

Then the nurse, solemn and quiet, would turn his back to that iron hard and double bolted door and lead him back out into the daylight, where the horrific sights and sounds from the asylum would dim to a faint ache. Mikhail would slip home through dark, shadowy alleyways, and far below his feet, rebellion was stirring.

That rebellion was centered around three people – one of whom was thoroughly unwillingly and unwittingly involved.

Elysium had been interrogated for hours, and her meager answers had been completely worthless. More than once, either Sian or Asimir or both had let loose an exasperated sigh or groan of annoyance. She didn't like Sian at all – he was utterly cold, more than once smacking her in an effort to make her talk. Each time, Asimir would scold him and smile reassuringly at Elysium, but it did no good. She hated the man no less.

Asimir, though, was the first person not to look at her like she was a monster. He was charming, to say the least, but the way he looked at her disturbed her even more. In his eyes, she seemed to be – property, almost, leverage of a value as of yet unknown.

But really, what was she to do? She couldn't tell them what she was, because she truthfully didn't know. She couldn't tell them who she was because she wasn't even supposed to exist in the first place.

Once he finally stopped slapping her, Sian leveled a cold stare at Elysium the entire time, silent except when spoken to by Asimir or when asking a particularly scathing question. From the way the women in the group stared at him, he must have been that deadly combination of mindbogglingly handsome and cold as a desert winter night.

But for some reason unknown even to herself, Elysium found herself staring relentlessly at Asimir. A charming, attractive bundle of muscle, he could smile and cajole any person in the group and get them to do whatever he wished.

He asked her the same questions over and over again, with that smile and that goading voice.

"What are you, dear?

Eyes downcast, feet shuffling and shifting, she would reply, "I don't know." Each time, her voice grew softer and softer.

This continued until she simply wouldn't speak at all.