I slip out of my clothes and into the dress, zipping it halfway up my back. It's going to stay halfway up my back for now because this thing is tight, and I can't reach the damn zipper. He had this all planned; I swear to God. Forgetting about the zipper for a minute, I move into the bathroom and find an array of cosmetics—makeup, perfume, mouthwash, and deodorant. Well, someone wants me to smell nice tonight. I am his puppet. This is ridiculous.
While huffing through my frustration, I use every product, covering up my wounds from that bitch the other day just to make myself look human. I guess it is still possible to look normal. Usually, when I look in the mirror, I can only see a criminal—one who should be sharing a cell with Mason Phillips.
I shake the thoughts away like I do a dozen times a day, and head over to my next box of death. I can already assume what's under the lid of this box, and as I lift it off, I confirm my thoughts … four-inch black pumps. They couldn't be three inch heels, obviously. They have to be four, so maybe I'll break my neck tonight. This isn't me—the me I am today. I used to enjoy getting dressed up, looking the best I could look, but I was raised that way, and it was the only way I thought I should appear in public. In truth, I also enjoy getting my hands dirty and not caring what people think of me. Or maybe it's what I've become accustomed to over the years while focusing more on my passions ... and now, troubles. It seems hard to remember what my life was like before I got involved with Mason.
I swallow the lump in my throat and knock on the connecting door. It takes a minute, but Axel pushes the door open without concern, as if he wasn’t standing there in just boxer briefs. Heat quickly spreads through my cheeks as I take in a long drink of the delicious sight. Clearly, I didn’t have enough of it earlier. I want to know when he finds time in his busy life to go to the gym and maintain abs like that. Maybe it’s part of his job description. I appreciate the way he looked while hovering over me earlier, as well as the view of him from beneath me, but this angle is just as attractive.
"Do you need something?" he asks without any form of expression.
"My zipper … it's stuck."
He twirls his finger in the air, gesturing that I turn around. More of the puppet controlling shit. God, this is infuriating. I roll my eyes as I turn around, fully aware that most of my back is bare. Whatever. His knuckles gently rest against my skin as he pulls the zipper up without a struggle, leaving me with a trail of chills from his slight touch. "I honestly couldn't get it up. That's the only reason I knocked on your door," I say, turning back to face him.
"Well," he says with a soft laugh as he scratches the shadow of stubble across his chin, "that may be the same reason I knock on your door tonight too." By the way he's undressing me with his eyes, I suspect I know what he thinks will be happening after dinner. "I knew that dress would look amazing on you."
"What are we doing, Axel?" I back up toward the edge of the bed. "I work for you, don't I?"
"There is no hierarchy between any of us, despite what you might think. We're all equal." We are not equal.
"So why do you have to act like you're above everyone all the time?"
He moves toward me, and I find myself scooting backward, up against the bed. "Someone has to be in control at all times, and I happen to be good at controlling things. It works for all of us."
While I know he's talking about the work we're doing, I can't help but consider the double meaning within his description of control. Is he warning me?
"I guess we have that in common," I tell him. "I like to control things too.” I'm fighting against my alarming nerves, knowing stress causes my face to light up like a Christmas tree. I’ve worked hard to maintain control of my stress, but Axel has a way of breaking down my barriers.
"I have to get dressed," he says, while trying to weaken me with his intense glare. Part of me wants to beg him to stop looking at me the way he is, but the other part of me is turned on by the trouble glowing in his eyes.
Axel walks back into his room, leaving the door open. Whether it's an invitation or not, I'm putting it out of my head. I need to keep my head clear tonight while I meet with this "someone” who is responsible for keeping me off the street, or so I’m assuming.
I grab the remote and turn the TV on, drowning out the noise of Axel's razor. I’ve tried to ignore the news during the last year since avoidance seems to allow me a sense of ignorance, and I’ve felt better not knowing what's going on in the world. However, after learning what I did to the guy Axel had us mind-washing the other day, I have an urge to see what else is going on out there now. God knows what else I’m missing. A woman with a microphone is standing in the middle of a street, talking about a new piece of evidence on an ongoing case.
It could be about anything.
It could be, but it's not. It’s about me.
* * *
"We have just learned that Dr. Mason Phillips, a former professor and Chief Science Officer of the Psychology Department at Boston University who was charged with forty counts of murder after conducting unauthorized research on Boston University grounds had several counterparts. Though, only one has survived the others. Details are still emerging, but as of now, investigators are telling us that this counterpart is still at large and is holding weaponized intelligence. However, the investigators have also recently reported that they have been tipped off on this woman’s whereabouts. They have supplied all news outlets with a photograph of what they believe this dangerous woman currently looks like. The woman's name is Isabelle Hammel, and if you have any information, please call your local police or FBI field office immediately."
No. My hands instinctively reach up and scoop around my neck, and I can feel my heart beating frantically. A cold sweat covers me, knowing I’m about to face the biggest of my nightmares. I have been so careful throughout the last year, to remain hidden, so it has to be Axel and Everett. No one else has had any interaction with me. I want to close my eyes and face away from the TV, but I can't. My eyes are frozen open, drying out, beginning to burn and blur as I stare at the photograph in front of me. The woman on the screen has short, blonde hair and glasses. She’s heavyset and nicely dressed. She looks nothing like me. I'm a slim brunette without glasses, a person who wouldn't be questioned in relation to the photo they are showing.
Relief is slight, but it's better than the alternative—my actual photo being shown. I don't know how they made such a mistake, and the good person I once was should save this woman from being blamed for the crime I was unknowingly responsible for. I will never again be able to refer to myself as a decent human being. Dr. Phillips took all the blame, but forty people were surely not killed because of him. It’s impossible. I designed the ensemble, but I never tested it or watched the testing; therefore, I can’t imagine he would try testing without my documentation. Even if he had been conducting testing, I can’t fathom the thought of Mason repeating a trial or test if it even caused one death. Our lab was called a torture chamber, but I thought it was a psychological term for prying the evil out of those who needed the help. There was never an intention to kill anyone. It certainly wasn’t my intention. My only goal was to help people who were suffering from trauma-caused mental conditions. I didn't know what I was capable of doing. No. We were not killing people. I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t.
I didn’t know how Darkest Perception would be used. Though, being the creator, I feel like I inadvertently played the part of God.
Axel walks back into my room, clasping the cufflinks of his white pressed shirt. "You okay? You look like you're going to be sick. You don't need to worry about tonight. You’re Harley, okay?"
"I think I need to go home," I tell him, standing up from the bed while wringing my fingers around my bracelet. I feel like I might be breaking out into hives. I'm itchy and burning up. "I need to leave."