Office A-110 was composed of three walls in suede and a single one in dark red, which was opposed to the front door and on which a framed painting of flowers laid hanging with simplicity. A few steps ahead, a nice table was harmoniously flanked by two chairs in golden wood and scarlet upholstery. The floor was covered in an imitation of a Persian carpet in coppery tones, and, while a beige couch offered a comfortable resting place on the left side of the room, there were two doors at its right, one leading to a medium-sized bathroom and the other leading to a bedroom.
August 19th, 2013
Skye Patzke ran her tapered fingers through her Tiffany Infinity necklace and sighed. As though being free of any care in the world, she rose of her comfortable seat and walked to the bathroom with the grace of a runway model.
After looking in the huge mirror next to the sink, she crinkled her eyebrows. Her black pencil skirt, a piece of the garment that Mount Massive Asylum — a large sanatorium located in a remote spot of the mountains of Lake County, Colorado — imposed as uniform for its female employees, valued her sexy curves, exposing her calves and also part of her thighs, for she made sure to customize it by cutting impeccable side slits in it. Fitting her torso graciously, there was a feminine white blouse with a single ruffle cascading down both sides of the placket.
Even at the age of twenty five, the psychiatrist did not seem to have abandoned the vivid freshness that only teenage people had: her oval face, with angular cheekbones and a smooth chin, consisted of such preciousness that anyone with eyes to see would say it might as well have been carved out of a diamond rock. She had a pair of expressive arched eyebrows that stood high above her large almond-shaped grey eyes, which were surrounded by long, dark lashes. A little below the region of her eyeballs, her perfect straight-edged nose coexisted in harmony with her full lips, and all the pieces that made up that beautiful face vied for attention with each other — the result of the dispute, as expected, was a draw. Her delicate skull was crowned by a silky and rich cascade of black hair, which was always glossy. At that time, due to her work routine, though, the owner of that entire splendor decided it would be more appropriate to keep the shiny locks in a ponytail.
She gazed at the mirror for the last time as she turned to her side a little in order to find out if there were any marks on her skirt left by her underwear. Over her shoulder, concluding that everything was perfect with her enviable butt, she winked at her reflection and returned to stand face to face with it, thoughtful: something was missing. Quickly, she unfastened four buttons of her blouse, a red bra showing off discreetly in her newly formed cleavage.
"Perfect." As usual, once approving her figure, she licked the tip of her index finger and used it to touch the top of her left breast. Immediately, the sound of cold water colliding with a red-hot steel bar broke into the bathroom, and a thin wisp of smoke rose from the spot she touched. Letting a lovely laugh escape through her lips, she shook her head and headed for her desk. Since she had nothing to do yet, she began organizing at least ten bouquets of roses - sent by her secret admirers, who were obviously employees of the asylum with some purchasing power, though - left on top of her belongings earlier that morning.
After rereading the file of her last patient, Patzke rolled her eyes. At that point, there was nothing more outdated to the psychiatrist than reading about the crimes committed by the sanatorium inmates, atrocities that had put them in forced confinement for almost endless years. When she thought she was about to doze off on her papers, the shrill ringing of the phone calcified the numbness of the atmosphere. The noise would have startled anyone immersed in the dispersed state which the woman was in, but that was not her case. Stretching her exemplar posture, she used one of her French manicured hands to answer the call.
"You have reached the faaabulous Skye Patzke. How can I assist you?" She asked, using her rehearsed playfulness. Her voice, although it could suffer modifications depending on her state of mind, was often as charming as the purr of a cat and as juvenile as a teenage party. Since no one was watching, however, she didn't bother displaying any kind of smile.
"Ms. Patzke?" The guy on the line was putting on a professional tone, using it in a strategic mode, according to what the psychiatrist's avid brain fancied, to conceal a hint of shyness. "You have an appointment with a patient in five minutes."
All of a sudden, his announcement made that afternoon's proposal interesting. Finally, it would be time for a little fun!
"Sounds like fun." Before the young doctor could contain her words, she expelled them with ease. There was a short silence on the other end of the line, during which the man seemed confused.
"Uh, would you like to have the name and number of the patient to the documentation of the session?"
She kept a silence for a few seconds, playing with a pen. After not having to make any effort to search her mind for something to say, she spoke:
"Tell me, Hilton..."
"Yes, Ms." And, suddenly, just as if he had got some real good news, he seemed excited that his voice was recognized and linked to his name by her.
"Do you work at NASA?"
"Huh? No."
"Then why are you spacing?" Only then, to make it clear she was only joking, the doctor released a charming laughter, and Hilton left aside the outrage that he was supposed to feel, but that never managed to get to him, and laughed too. "Of course I would like to have the name and the number of the patient."
"Very well, then." After clearing his throat, he continued. "His name is Dennis Fink, and his patient number is 139. Age: 35."
After writing the current date down on a paper, Skye tapped her fingers on the table, and the noise of her long nails hitting the wood could be heard over the phone.
"What are you waiting for? Send him iii-in." She sang and, without saying good-bye, put the handset on the receiver. With a carefree smile on her lips and her chin up, she kept waiting until, a few minutes later, someone finally knocked on the door. "Come in."
Two security guards — Peter Kane, the bid-nosed, and Chase Finch, the hunchback — invaded the room escorting a tall, but sickly figure. In another office, they would proceed without ceremonies, but, in that one, they halted, astounded, with their eyes fixed on the image of Patzke. She smiled with breadth, her glistening white teeth popping against her deliciously red lips, and, after a few moments, snapped her fingers to wake both men up from the trance. Clumsy, with nothing left to say, one of them sat Dennis with brutality in a chair, and the other, waving the vision of the doctor's perfect cleavage away from his mind, prepared himself to restrict the movements of the patient with leather straps.
"That won't be necessary." She was the first to break the silence, her sexy voice dancing in the air.
"Ms. Patzke, I should warn you that, although this patient may be mostly harmless, not containing his movements is against the rules of this company." Authoritatively, almost recovered from the shock of moments ago, Kane said while looking at her over his shoulder.
As soon as the brunette psychiatrist processed the security man's words, her eyelids lowered. She raised herself slowly from her seat and leaned towards the table, bending over it with her hands. Only then, she opened her eyes.
"This is my office. Everyone plays by my rules." Suddenly, her voice seemed more dark and loaded, as if it belonged to someone else, while something in her eyes made Chase and Peter shiver from head to toe. No wonder: the spark in her gray iris had shifted from a gentle wit to a demonic glow in moments that ran too fast to be accounted. Immediately, the men turned their back to her and started squeezing through the doorjamb, competing to see who would get out of there first. When the door was slammed shut, Patzke sat, crossed her long legs and stared at the tragic creature in front of her.
"Hullo, Dennis Fink." She began, but being suddenly interrupted made one of her eyebrows shoot up.
"You are the prettiest girl I've ever seen." An effeminate tone left the patient's vocal cords, followed by a low and manly one. "Timmy, I told you so many times: grow some hair on your pecker before you start flirting around."
As fast as a lightning bolt would flash through the night sky, a strong indication of DID, Dissociative Identity Disorder, was scored on Dennis' file.
"How many people are you, sweeties?" Skye decided to leave the formal and introductory part out of the appointment, since it would be more interesting to pair her speech with the now predictable fantasy of that individual in her office. With her chin up and watchful eyes, she removed a MAC Russian Red of her purse, applied a fresh layer and rubbed her lips together.
"F-F-Four." A third modification of his voice broke into the dialogue.
"And how long have you been living together?"
"I-I-It's been so long... W-W-We d-d-don't even remember anymore."
"What is the quality of the relationship between you? Friendly, maybe?"
"Cowards and idiots, all of them." What looked like the oldest one of the personalities replied. "Shame of my loins!"
The psychiatrist looked at the upper-left corner of the office and caught sight of a security camera. In any other institution, monitoring psychiatric interviews would be acknowledged as a crime against privacy due to the obvious extremely unethical nature of such a thing. However, that place was Mount Massive Asylum.
"There's some tension right there." She started by narrowing her eyes at the device that was recording the session, like trying to see it better. "Stress in a very high dose for only one person." And her last words were italicized with derision and followed by a mocking smile. Fink, however, only shrugged in response.
"We've got worser problems." His low and raspy tone returned.
"Tell me about it." Carefree, the therapist put the file that corresponded to the inmate over a carbon layer, which was positioned over a new blank page. Focused, she began taking some notes that she considered relevant about her patient: "There are strong indications that the patient Dennis Fink suffers from DID, Dissociative Identity Disorder, illness formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder. According to my observations, his are five personas: three of them are unidentified, but one is potentially authoritarian; one has a slight speech impediment; one seems to belong to an elder male; one points toward a sexually inexperienced young man named Timmy; and his own, which he almost doesn't show. If the diagnosis is well-founded, the use of cognitive behavioral therapy, combined with hypnotherapy, is highly recommended". She touched her chin with the tip of her pen, thoughtful. When the idea she was looking for came to her mind, she started writing again.
"Fink's current mental state indicates little convenience to the requirements of the Morphogenic Engine Program. It would be preferable to wait for improvements on the patient's psychic condition so he can respond more satisfactorily to the experiments."
The patient seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if dealing with an internal conflict. Probably, he was.
"We are concerned about The Groom."
Without need to worry, the brunette tilted her head to the right.
"God knows what will happen to us if we don't find a goat to feed him before our gender is on the line."
And, as soon as she heard those words, she cracked up into her delicate palm.
"Your gender? You mean your 'dicks', right? What a goody-goody language."
"What are you laughing at? This is serious!" Dennis clearly did not understand what was so funny about his words. So, he pulled himself up from his seat in a threatening way. Skye's smile did not die, but her eyes shifted to that same satanic, spooky glow.
"Sit down."
Immediately, without even knowing why he was complying, the inmate fell on the chair.
"He needs a bride. We give him other flesh, and he s-s-spares ours."
"The Groom would be an inmate who uses physical torture as a tool of intimidation, I suppose."
"He's the devil himself..." Timmy said, trembling.
There was a moment of silence, during which Patzke checked her impeccable image in a pocket mirror, submerged in apparent apathy to the outside world.
"Above the knees, below the navel, sliced and sewn on his table. To make a place to push inside, The Groom will make himself a bride." Dennis started babbling the words over and over again, as if he suddenly got into some kind of trance.
"Gentlemen," Taunting one more time, she said while she consulted her Tiffany Cocktail wristwatch. "It's quite possible that I've got other patients to see. Is there a point to your madness here?"
The man ignored her and continued to recite the verses until he felt that dark look upon him again. The horrible feeling was more than enough for his mouth to shut up, because fear and uncertainty went through every fiber of his flesh.
"Much better!" Exclaiming, the young psychiatrist grabbed the phone's handset, dialed a few numbers and waited for somebody to take her call. "Hullo, the patient is ready to go." Turning back to Dennis, she smiled.
"If we give the Groom a real woman, maybe he'd leave us alone forever." Timmy came back to the surface, suggesting, as the gaze of the body he was confined in rested in the sexy figure at the other side of the desk. "Do not dream so high, Timmy, you stupid brat! Of course the Groom would kill her too. He does not spare anyone."
"What an ah-dorable idea. Who knows? Maybe I should pay him a visit." With her hands resting on her papers and an expression that mixed excitement and sarcasm on her face, she mockingly celebrated his suggestion.
"Ma'am?" A calling came from the other side of the door, muffled by it.
"Come in." Skye said, crossing her hands over her cervix and waiting patiently. Kane and Finch entered cautiously, as if expecting to find a different place altogether than the one they had left an hour ago. "Dennis behaved in an exemplary manner." The young doctor extended the envelope containing the original patient file to the hunchback, keeping a secret copy to herself. The man, who could have sworn she had read his thoughts, took the document, and, without further delay, both security guards grabbed the inmate by his arms and escorted him out.
Fifteen minutes later, the office's phone ringed once more. Patzke, who had her voluptuous crossed legs resting on the table, answered it with disdain.
"You have reached the faaabulous Skye Patzke. What can I do to assist you?"
"Ms. Patzke?" While twisting the phone's wire around her index finger, she didn't have to search her memory a lot to recognize the voice of the caller. Shrugging, she assumed a casual, but seductive tone. As incredible as it seemed, that was not a timbre that she needed to force or rehearse. In fact, that was a vocal approach that came naturally and involuntary to her. Jeremy Blaire, in turn, seemed to realize that special detail in the speech of the latest employee of the sanatorium, and that realization disarmed his passive-aggressive posture automatically. Not that he intended to use it against Skye Patzke without a good reason, of course.
"This is Jeremy. I'd like to speak to you in my office. Now." Nevertheless, he covered his voice up in a fabricated arrogant demeanor. Not to his surprise, it seemed painful to him that the boastful posture he used so naturally with everyone else appeared to be used so artificially when he was dealing with that woman.
"Certainly, Mr. Blaire." Before she could be left alone on the line, the brunette hung up. With a sigh of indifference, she stood up and headed to the bathroom. As someone who paraded for an audience, she put one foot in front of the other while walking, and her hips swayed with every step taken.
After tweaking her clothes and checking, unsurprised, that her flirty face and her silky hair remained as impeccable as usual, she went for the office door, opened it and left the room. As she crossed the halls of that wing of the building, the mere fact of her being there seemed to make the day of the scientists and other employees who crossed her path. All eyes were on her.
"You're hot!" Someone, probably many steps behind, since their compliment did not sound so loud, exclaimed at her back. She rolled her eyes and dropped a condescending laughter, not slowing her speed a single moment. Verbal harassment by colleagues would be unacceptable in any other institution.
But any other institution was nothing like that one. That one was Mount Massive Asylum.