Part 2 of the series We. Are. One.
Chapter 5 - ENLIGHTENMENT
She puts on a smile any time we cross paths, any time we’re together with the children in the infirmary. She glows, winks, tells jokes. She’s too much light, but not like the light of a bulb. It’s a warm light that can turn scorching in a second under the right pressure, like fire, but the kind of fire that destroys entire forests. Too much light for the lab.
Unless it’s a false light, the light that lures moths in until it electrifies them.
And I didn’t forget about her face that day, when we gave the children new names, as she opened the desk drawer. There was something in it that I wasn’t supposed to see, something she forgot was there. Might have been the sparkle of the light trap, a bright bug zapper. I only have to wait for her to get out of her office, and right before dinner, I watch her close that door while I hide behind a corner down the hallway. I slide in, my eyes raking the corridor to make sure no one sees me, and hurry behind the desk.
The drawer creaks as I slowly pull it toward me. There’s a single item inside it, folded neatly and stuffed in the farthest corner. A cloth. Silky and black. Could be the wrapping for something else. My jaw hangs open for a second after I pull the fabric out, feeling its weightlessness, revealing that nothing is hidden underneath, only what it actually is.
A pair of panties. They’re so smooth they don’t even wrinkle when my fingers dig into them, stretching them and then crumpling them where a spot of crusted residue stiffens the fabric. Anyway, nothing compromising. Definitely something she had to hide, but not for the reasons I’m looking for. I stare at them a second longer than I should, with my arm warring against my will to raise and bring them closer. Instead, I just refold them and place them exactly where they were before.
Over the past few days, I picked up the habit of lingering behind the kitchen wall and watching her eat her dinner, but only when she gets into the canteen later on and the others have already left. Every now and then, I join her. But I made sure joining her didn’t become part of my routine.
She always sits at the same table, the one in the middle of the room. She chooses the bench that lets her watch the glass hatch of the canteen’s main door, which sits opposite the wall from the open doorway between the canteen and the kitchen. Because of this, I always watch her from behind. Apparently, I’m one of the few people who enters this room from the side kitchen entrance. It was originally built for the cooks, but over the years, after the kitchen was renovated and expanded, it ended up being the entry door from a side hallway that ends up in a storeroom, so a hallway no one walks through because it leads to nowhere. That’s why everyone uses the more accessible main door. This helped me overhear conversations I wasn’t meant to hear and study other people’s behavior when they thought no one was watching.
Tonight I planned to stay hidden. Tonight wasn’t the time to whet her curiosity or toy with her. My feet didn’t care and brought me outside of the kitchen from the side door and into the canteen from the main one – no reason to give away my secret entry.
She lifts her head when she hears someone approaching, and the light on her changes the second she sees me. Her forehead relaxes, the corners of her mouth rise, and her lips grow fuller instead of thinning as they stretch into a smile. I still don’t know how she does it.
“Are you eating with me?” she asks with a glint in her eyes.
I crane my neck to peek past her into the kitchen, as if I hadn’t been there only a few seconds ago and didn’t already know that there was no food left so late at night.
As soon as she catches me doing just that, she pushes her tray into the middle of the table between us, regarding me with sympathy.
“I sometimes ask the cooks to leave something out for me before they close up. I don’t feel like eating with the others.”
I sit in front of her, picking a fry from the plate she offered me.
“Did you already make yourself some enemies?” I tease, nibbling on the fry.
“Enemies? No… but I hate biting my tongue when people need to be told off. And if I ate with them every day at every meal, the peace among colleagues would take a serious hit.” She leans in and brings her open hand to the side of her mouth conspiratorially, whispering the rest of her sentence. “Because I’m awful at doing the things I hate.” Then she giggles as she sits up straight.
Her hair is tied asymmetrically at her shoulder, falling over her clavicle and her chest to disappear below the table. It catches the light where it follows the curve of her breast, a soft sheen drawing my eyes there.
“I take it you met Robert.” That pig.
“Oh, boy, did I. Maybe I shouldn’t be so forward as to badmouth them with one of their colleagues…”
“If they were all on fire, I’d bring marshmallows.” I let it slip out without thinking. Yes, I wanted her to feel comfortable opening up – after all, the more she tells me, the more I could read her and her intentions – but I wasn’t ready for spite to come out in a joke without restraint.
She almost lets the sip of water go down the wrong pipe and stifles a laugh as she sets the glass down.
“Well, if you put it that way. Robert has a dirty mouth that could benefit from a muriatic acid mouthwash, Victor has a brown nose glued to Brenner’s ass, and Keith pretends to be above them by keeping his mouth shut constantly, without realizing he’s just like them because he lets them say and do whatever they please.”
I kill a smile in its tracks. “See? I told you that you were good at reading people.”
“Yes, you did. But you already knew that when I read you.”
I shift my eyes to the plate between us. “I never confirmed nor denied your theory.”
She swats my hand away as I reach for another fry and grins. “You didn’t have to.”
My breath catches for a moment. Her straightforward insolence is fascinating. I’ve never known a woman so direct, with such a sharp tongue.
“How did you manage to put up with them for so long?” she asks, sliding the fries back my way.
“By ignoring them, their filthy tales, and their bullying.” I stop talking, and she angles her head to the side.
“They… bully you?” Her brows draw together.
“And I let them. I… don’t care.”
She pouts thoughtfully, and I clear my throat.
“I must go,” I mutter, pressing my hands on the table to stand.
“Don’t – sorry,” she blurts out, wrapping her fingers around my wrist with widened eyes.
“What are you sorry for?”
“I didn’t mean to imply anything. Please, stay.”
I look intently at her for a beat, not sure why. I only see authenticity. And I don’t even know what it means. Breaking free from her hold, I swing my leg over the bench and straighten up.
“It’s late. Thank you for the fries, Nora.” And I leave.
For most of the night, I pace my room instead of sleeping. And even when I lie down, I find myself tracing the cracks in the ceiling. Every time I close my eyes, I see her pout – that surgical strike, a probe sent directly into the blind spots I’ve spent years camouflaging. Was that what she was after? My blind spots? And how could I react like that? I don’t even blink when Robert sneers at me, or when Victor side-eyes me in front of Brenner. Their lives, like all others, have expiry dates, and I don’t waste my energy on ghosts. So how was she able to pry it out of me so effortlessly? I sold out my vulnerability for a plate of French fries.
I paid for my restless night with a sluggish start, the morning already well underway by the time I walk the halls. It doesn’t matter. I never have breakfast with them anyway. As usual, I enter the kitchen from the side door to scan who’s already sitting at the table. And there she is. Again. Her hair now held up in a messy bun with strands spilling untamed down the nape of her neck. I see the back of her frame: her eggshell silk of her blouse seems to glow, thin enough to drape softly over her like a second skin, while the deep teal of her skirt clings to the curve of her hips, anchored by a silver zipper that runs down to the small of her back.
She looks wary, and I duck back as she glances around to check her surroundings. I might finally see what she’s hiding.
When I stretch my neck to watch her again, I have to blink hard and refocus to make sure I am not imagining it. She isn’t just sitting. She’s rocking her hips against the hard wood of the bench with a rhythmic, desperate focus. Her breathing is frantic, and her knuckles white where she grips the edge of the table for leverage. My gaze follows the fluid, rolling motion of her pelvis – slow and exploratory at first, then increasingly urgent.
I hold my breath, straining to catch the small, wet sounds of her exertion. Her gasps are clipped, short, and intense. She presses her waist down, swaying as if to keep a hula hoop in motion and grinding as if to soothe a torturous itch, her head falling back in an arc of abandon before she forcibly jerks it upright to keep watch on the glass hatch of the door. The messy bun at her nape bounces with every thrust of her hips, her shoulder blades rotate like gears to anchor her as her spine contorts under the deepening weight of her pleasure. When a low whimper finally breaks free from her throat, a sudden, heavy and throbbing heat pools in my groin, the fabric of my trousers pulling so tight it borders on pain.
The door opens and she freezes, and her hands fly off of the table. I hurry back behind the wall.
“Good morning, Doctor Lomax.” Brenner. “How are my subjects doing?”
It’s the first time I’ve overheard a full conversation between them. This could be promising.
“They are doing well.” Her voice is steady, but there’s a fragile strain in it, easily undetectable to anyone who hadn’t seen what she was doing just a second before.
“I left some new charts on your desk. Forgive me, I would’ve handed them to you personally, but I didn’t expect for you to be elsewhere.” I’ve known him long enough to recognize the sharp edge of disapproval in his tone.
“What are the forms about?” she asks, still trying to steady her breath.
“I noticed a lot of subjects lately tend to get… overfixated on the task they’re given. This could potentially become a problem. So I concocted a chart to monitor it. It’s very self-explanatory, but have a look at it and feel free to give me a call if you need clarification. I figured you can use the after-lunch check time to interview them instead of playing with them.”
I hear the door click shut behind him. I replay the conversation a dozen times, searching for a mask, a code, or a double meaning. Maybe it wasn’t a reprimand so much as an order to focus on her primary task – me. But no matter how I dissect it, nothing strikes me as ambiguous.
All I know for now is that she is hiding something. Desire, not deceit.
This needs confirmation, if only to put my mind at ease. During my shift, I’m paired with Victor in the rainbow room, keeping an eye on the children. It’s effortless to let my knees buckle, to slip to the floor and keep my eyes sealed as I hear him marching toward me.
“Henry? Get up!” I’m not even surprised by his roughness as he grabs my shoulders and jerks me upward. I let my eyes flutter open.
“Take me to the doctor,” I say under my breath, feigning dizziness.
And here I am, lying flat on the infirmary’s gurney, waiting for him to call for her. When she enters, she dismisses him quickly and approaches me with a flicker of worry in her eyes.
“What’s the matter?” Her assertive voice fails to mask the tightness in her throat as she takes a half-step back when she realizes she’s encroaching on my space.
“I’m not sure. I’ve been feeling dizzy all day.” With this lie, I watch her lips curl while she thinks.
“Let me check your blood pressure,” she says finally, shifting her gaze away from mine.
While her back is turned to the side table, I sit up on the edge of the gurney and undo the button on my sleeve. She faces me again, her stethoscope hanging around her neck and the blood pressure cuff in her hands. She stills for a few seconds, unable to avert her eyes from the slow roll of the fabric up my arm. Suddenly that knot in my chest disappears.
I’m not the moth anymore. She is.
She invades my personal space to wrap the cuff around my arm, and a waft of her wildflower scent floods me instantly. Her hands are warm and soft against my skin. As soon as the cuff is secure, she trails her fingers down my forearm for a lingering inch before pulling away. I’m still trying to decipher whether she does this intentionally or if it’s a lapse of judgment she only notices after it happens. For now, it feels like the latter. She’s slightly flushed and turns her face away, offering me her profile as she starts pumping. But she is still so close – so close that it would take very little to reach her cheek with my nose.
The cuff starts tightening, and every time I think she’s done, she pumps once more. It gets uncomfortable first, then painful. It’s so tight it feels as if it might sever my arm, and then she pumps once more, until I let out a grunt of pain. Pins and needles spark along the length of my forearm while my hand is already numb. Her fingers tremble slightly on the bulb, and her grip tightens to hide it. Before releasing the pressure, her eyes scan my purpled skin, unbothered by the fact I’m staring at her. Finally, her eyes lift and meet mine for a second. Only then does she release the valve, her gaze fixed on the manometer.
“Okay. Your blood pressure is perfect.” Her voice this time is steady, decisive – and darker. I ball my hand into a fist and then release it, over and over, to restore the blood flow. After setting down her equipment, she picks out a penlight from the pocket over of her breast and inches nearer again. When her palm leans against my jaw and her fingers stretch my eye open, my attention stalls on her mouth. Her lips are lightly parted, leaving a sliver of darkness between them. A black hole. Through it, warm air flows out to brush against my cheeks.
Her sentence, assertive and powerful, snaps me out of it. I do as she says, staring intently into her blown-out pupils that almost devour her irises. The sight is abruptly cut off by the bright light hitting me, blinding me all at once. Even after the pen moves to the other eye, it takes me a while to see clearly again. I remain sightless, enveloped in a white haze for a moment.
But I still feel her. Her fingers on my skin, her breath on my face, her scent in my nostrils. My mouth is suddenly dry, and no amount of swallowing soothes it.
“Your reactions are normal. Good.”
Now that I see again, she’s still close. Her penlight is back in her pocket, and her fingers drag lower on the side of my throat until she finds my pulse. Her focus lingers on her watch, and I study the way her chest labors under breaths that seem to need more room to expand, and how the pressure of her fingers deepens under my jaw.
She is very careful not to look at me again as she takes a chart and starts writing. But then she pauses, pen in hand. Without lifting her eyes from the paper, she says something I find myself surprisingly glad to hear.
“I don’t see anything alarming, Henry. But just for my peace of mind, I’d rather have you spend the night here under observation. I’ll be in my office, so you can get some sleep. Just holler if you need anything.”
“Thanks Nora,” I murmur, as if speaking any louder could shatter the moment. She lifts her head and gawks at me, the black hole reappearing between her lips. She pulls away quickly to fetch a pillow and a blanket from the linen trolley behind the gurney.
A shiver of excitement runs through me later that night, when she’s no longer in the room with me and I prepare for sleep. I hang my shirt on the rack beside the door, staying in my T-shirt. The camera is there, its glass eye fixed on me as I pretend not to know it’s there while I slip under the blanket she left for me.
The next part is going to take a lot out of me, and I stall for a bit, trying to appear relaxed when I am anything but, locking my hands behind my head and making sure not to look directly into the lens.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to conjure the memory of her touch – her fingers on my pulse, her scent, the way she filled the air between us. I see her breasts again, so close I could have brushed them with my lips without effort. My mind replays the remembrance of her on that bench, her body moving with a hunger that was hers alone, while the strength of my own hardness from this morning returns – a sharp, insistent ache imploring me for release.
I let my hand drag lower, skimming the skin of my stomach. It’s partly for show, and partly because no one has ever watched me do this. I single-handedly undo my belt, the metallic click sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room. I ease the zipper down and tug at the hem of my trousers and underwear with my thumb, careful to keep the blanket in place as a shield. It’s ready again, ready to receive that release it’s been wanting since this morning.
As soon as my grip closes around myself, the past tries to claw its way back in. I get the old, unwanted flashes of white garments, of hands that weren't mine dangling lifeless under the thrusts, of exposed body parts that were meant to be used for an experiment. The panic starts to rise, a cold tide trying to douse the heat. I squint, fighting the intrusion, my heart hammering violently against my ribs. The effort of pushing the ghosts away almost makes me lose my erection, but I force the haze out pulling her face back in, and if it’s like nothing bad ever happened. I focus on her and on the black hole between her lips, and the blood rushes back, hot and focused.
The stroking starts, calm and unhurried. I am taking this back. To keep from slipping into that dangerous territory, I pair the sensations of my hand with new pictures. Her hand doing this to me. Her warm, wildflower-scented palm. At the thought, I clench harder. The rhythmic, familiar sound of my own desperation has me wondering if the sound of me entering her body would be the same. I make up new pictures. For the first time, I imagine claiming her, feeling her rock back and forth upon me as if I were that bench.
The thought that she might be watching through the lens slows my hand until it stops. Shame freezes me, a cold, paralyzing weight, until I look directly into the camera. A silent challenge. If she’s watching, she’s seeing a man, not a subject. Why feel shame if she is secretly enjoying the view?
And if she’s enjoying it, is it at all possible she would resume what she too left undone in the canteen?
I move my hand again, never averting my gaze from the lens. I focus on the thought that she might be doing the same to herself behind the closed door of her office. I see the picture clear in my mind’s eye, her body writhing, grinding against the chair behind her desk, her messy bun bobbing as her fingers dip in and out of her. My movement quickens, the friction building until it’s all I can feel – drowning out the old demons, replacing the damage with her heat. I can almost feel the warmth of her hand seeping into my skin, the gap between her lips widening, then my mind runs wild.
I free myself from judgment and surrender to the mental pictures: me cupping her face, probing her mouth with my tongue, then with my fingers, then with my length. Her hands searching for my body, her breath breaking as I bury myself deep inside her, her eyes rolling back with the pleasure I give her with my body.
My head falls back. I feel it building – a violent, beautiful shattering. I look back into the camera as if I’m looking into her eyes one last time and I give a small, knowing nod to the lens – permission. I stroke harder, gripping the thought of her matching my pace in the dark, almost hearing the sounds I think she makes when pleasure overwhelms her – not just a whimper, but a loud cry.
I try to suppress a low, guttural grunt, but it breaks from me anyway. Raw. The release finally hits, wetting the blanket while some of it leaks down my fist slowly and sated. I tug slowly once more, waiting for the last spill, and slump back against the pillow.
I stay there, breathless and, for the first time, lighter.
I fall asleep. Peacefully, deeply.
Not of Terry. Not of the monstrous child. I dream of her. Of us in the infirmary, lying down side by side, talking shit about the others and feeding each other French fries. A white light intermittently shines on us, blinding me, but I feel safe in the glare.
I jolt awake early in the morning, startled by the absence of night-terror sweat, and look around to remember where I am and what I’ve done. I try to figure out if I feel ashamed the morning after, but there’s no trace of embarrassment for the act itself. The only thing that doesn’t feel right is the calm after the storm. What was meant to be bait had hooked me instead, pulling me under until I lost the control I thought I had. To the point it has rewired my dreams.
Yes, she is a threat. Just in a way I never calculated.
