A/N: It might get a little dark at times, but I promise it won't always be miserable. T rating for the few chapters that include somewhat graphic violence.
b
...
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We are sealed, you and me.
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12 Hours Ago
...
"It was an accident. I swear to god she came outta nowhere." He stumbles over his words, breath tinged with something strong. She steels herself, taking in shallow breaths of murky air. The flames raging behind them engulf the silver sedan and leap through the smoke to lick the night sky. Her spine tingles, but she pays no mind to the danger behind. A life hangs in the balance.
She pushes her cell phone into the driver's hands, voice low and commanding: "Call an ambulance."
She kneels in the rocky earth off the shoulder of the road. The woman is sprawled grotesquely, eyes open but seeing nothing. It's too late. The air is hot, and the smell of burning rubber hangs deeply in her lungs. Despite the futility, she applies pressure to the gaping wound bisecting the woman's abdomen. It's for nothing, she knows, but she has to try. She cannot let herself do nothing.
"What're you doing?" the man asks, words tangled as she peels off her blazer and presses it to the woman's midsection.
"Trying to stop the bleeding," she mutters, before narrowing her eyes, "Ambulance?"
He holds the phone in the air and takes a few steps back, shaking his head, "Can't getta signal."
"Dammit," she whispers, gaze dropping back to the woman beneath her hands. She reaches up and brushes a curly red lock from the woman's disfigured face. She imagines she must have been beautiful and kind. Before. Sorrow pangs deep in her stomach as blood begins to seep through her blazer, staining her fingertips. A life is fading, and there's nothing she can do about it.
"Goodbye," she whispers.
"One bar!" the man shouts, but the sound quickly dies in his throat as the screen goes black in his hands. "It's dead."
It's hopeless, and she knows it. The woman dies within minutes.
She stands, blood dripping from her fingertips landing on the asphalt. Her hands grow heavy with the dead weight of unresponsive nerves. She feels that familiar cloud prick her skin in angry flares that trap her. Her body moves, dragging her behind.
[Him.]
The driver holds his hands out in front of him to create a barrier as she charges, "Whoa, hold on! What're you doing?"
"You killed her," she seethes. "She's dead." She is forced to listen to words that are not her own. To watch as her body moves on without her.
"It was an accident! I didn't see her!"
He turns to flee, but her hand shoots out, each slender finger taking its turn seizing his throat. Immobilized, his fate hangs in the air above him.
[Now.]
She has no choice but to obey.
"HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME!" he screams, but there is no one around for miles. She grunts as he tries to break from her grasp. He's much stronger but drunk and injured from the crash. She has the upper-hand.
She collapses him, landing a solid kick to the back of the knee.
"PLEASE! PLEASE! HELP ME!" He's on his knees before her, facing the wreckage. Facing the corpse of the woman he has murdered. She hears none of his cries.
[Do.]
He struggles to stand, but she holds him to the ground. The heel of her hand slams into the crown of his head, dazing him. He cannot escape. "Look," she says, barely whispering. She is angry. She is livid.
She is murderous.
"Look at what you've done."
"I'm sorry. Please!"
[Now.]
Her body moves without her consent, a feeling she knows well. She lets it happen. She has to. She doesn't fight it. Not now.
Never again.
She feels her fingers grab his chin roughly. In the back of her head, she registers the wetness that falls from his eyes onto her hand. Her left hand crosses over her right behind his head, fingers curling and finding a hold in the small gap between the mandible and the temporal bone just behind the ear. His thick bones and sharp jaw rough with stubble beneath her fingertips tell her that before the drinking, he must have been quite handsome. What a waste.
[Now.]
She simply watches as her body moves all on its own. She takes a step inward and rips her arms in opposite directions.
It's not the scream.
It's not the sickening crack that resonates through the air long after it's done.
It's not the thought of severing the spinal cord.
It's the whimpering after. The aftershocks and sounds of one damned. Of course, she knows this will not kill him. She is, after all, a doctor. No, his body will kill itself in time. Paralysis of the respiratory nerves and dilation of blood vessels will result in a fatal drop in blood pressure. After that, well, she is no longer required to finish the job.
Control floods back through her body, and she shoves the driver away immediately. He hits the ground with a dull thud, but the doctor isn't far behind. She stumbles and sways on her feet, extremely light-headed. She loses her balance and smacks her head on the asphalt.
He's gone.
[Good.]
…
..
Present Time
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The doctor sleeps for three days. For seventy-two hours she doesn't stir, doesn't wake, doesn't eat. For seventy-two hours, she rests, not that she has much of a choice. For it is not her who needs revitalization. It's all for Her. The whisper in her head. The icy fingers that weave into the very depths of her brain. The cloud forever fogging her full awareness of the world around her.
As powerful as She is, She cannot control the doctor for longer than a few moments. An hour at most. But in those moments, the doctor is Hers. No defiance. No protest. Nothing.
But the doctor doesn't notice. She's been this way all her life.
[Get up.]
Eyes snapping open, the doctor returns from a world of colorful dreams chased by tinges of threadlike darkness. There is no escape. Not even in sleep. She is always there.
[Eat.]
Though not controlled, the doctor obeys. She slides out of bed and pads on unsteady feet to the kitchen. Upon investigation of her pantry, she comes up with nothing. She hasn't been to the store in over a month. There is no food left, though something tells her she hasn't eaten in much longer than three days.
[Eat later.]
Of course, she agrees. There's no other option. On her way back to the bedroom, she passes a mirror. The air vanishes from her lungs as she turns slowly. The creature staring back at her is not one she recognizes. Wild, bloodshot eyes look back from a sallow face splattered with the reddish-brown stain of blood. Her hair hangs lower than she remembers, and it's darker too. The doctor runs her hand through her hair, wincing as her fingers brush a large knot.
She is confused. What happened?
[Nothing.]
This isn't nothing. I'm covered in blood.
All at once, her hands fly to her head as she screams and sinks to the ground. Her mouth fills with a metallic taste. A fire poker drives right between her eyes. Daggers ram into her temples. Razors blend her frontal lobe. She writhes on the floor caught somewhere between agony and anguish that only advances even further in unrelenting waves.
White-hot. Vibrant red.
White.
Red.
White.
Red.
Black.
[Enough.]
And just as quickly as it had begun, the pain subsides, leaving no evidence it ever existed. The doctor gets to her feet, disoriented, but altogether pain-free.
[Nothing.]
Nothing.
[Sleep.]
The doctor obeys.
…
The doctor awakens in darkness. She sits up, confused and famished.
[Get up.]
Another trip to the kitchen concludes what she's known since the last time she checked: there is no food. Desperate, she glances at the door.
Market.
[Eat.]
"Eat what?" she asks out loud.
Her head turns until she is looking directly at the stainless steel trash can. Her stomach turns, and she shakes her head. "I can just run out and pick something up."
[Rest. Eat here. Rest.]
But it's trash. I ca—
It's too late. She starts toward the trash can with slow and heavy steps. She is weak. She can barely control the doctor, but control is control all the same. She removes the top of the trash can and peers inside. The trash hasn't been taken out in weeks, and somewhere inside her, she registers evidence of maggots and other larvae.
"Please, no!" she begs.
[Eat. Rest.]
She reaches into the trash and pulls out an apple core, brown and rotted. The doctor fights Her with everything she has, but She is strong. So much stronger than anything the doctor knows.
[Eat. Rest.]
The doctor brings the rotten core to her mouth, teeth sinking into the fuzzy growth. It tastes earthy and of how geraniums smell. She gags and coughs and tears fill her eyes, but she takes another bite. She has no choice. Her teeth gnaw off chunks of the dense core and chew until it's nothing but a runny mess in her mouth. Only then does her body allow her to swallow.
She lets her go.
The doctor vomits.
[Rest.]
…
The distant barking of dogs rouses the doctor from sleep two days later. She is starved, gaunt, and ghost-like. She sits up and makes her way to the bathroom, careful not to do anything too suddenly.
Are you sleeping?
[Here.]
"I have to work today."
[Know. Work. Eat. Home. Rest. Yes.]
"Thank you," she says, turning on the shower ready to wash the entirety of the past week down the drain. To watch the blood, vomit, and filth circle the drain. She sheds her clothes, or at least what's left of them, and steps into the warm spray. The hot water soothes the tense muscles in her back far more than five days of sleep have.
[You. Good.]
Thank you.
[You… good.]
I don't understand.
[Good.]
...
The doctor returns to work for the first time in a week. Before the commute to work, she'd spoken on the phone with Dr. Tierney, her boss who seemed all-too-thrilled his "favorite medical examiner" had beaten a rather nasty strain of influenza. So thrilled, Dr. Tierney didn't seem to notice the call took place forty-five minutes into the workday.
She swipes her ID card through the checkpoint in the lobby of the Boston Police Department and smiles at a group of detectives as she passes. One of them‒ Detective Frost, she believes‒ follows after her.
"Dr. Isles," he says, jogging a little to catch up with her. "You alright?"
"Of course," she answers. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, you kinda went AWOL last week in the middle of the investigation. We were… worried."
She busies herself with clipping her ID to her purse, "I'd fallen ill."
"So sick you couldn't pick up your phone?"
She shrugs, "I must have misplaced my phone." It's true. She hasn't seen it since… since she can last remember.
"You? Misplaced? Are you alright Dr. Isles?" he asks genuinely. She has worked with Frost on a number of murder investigations. He is patient and thorough and doesn't seem to mind her meticulous methods. She might dare call him an acquaintance.
"Yes, I'm fine." She is flustered, and the detective can tell.
He lowers his voice, "Are you sure, Maura?"
His use of her first name jars her. She prefers her title. Cold professionalism. Something she's certain she's guilty of hiding behind. She clears her throat quietly, "Yes, Detective. I was just feeling a little under the weather, but I'm better now. Okay? Nothing to worry about." She leaves him in the middle of the lobby and takes the elevator downstairs.
See what you're doing? I can't be gone like that again. Not again. It draws too much attention.
[Fine.]
I mean it.
[Yes.]
The doctor pushes into her office, ready to throw herself back into her work. It seems just about the only time She makes herself scarce. Paperwork and excisions seem to bore Her.
She takes her seat behind her desk and draws in a deep breath. She's done something… Something awful. She can't recall much of anything, but the blood covering her hands when she had first awoken was undeniable. Someone else's blood was all over her, and she could only hope She had not done something unforgivable.
Please try to control yourself.
[Yes. Fine.]
"Thank you," she says, glancing around to make sure she's alone.
[Work.]
And she does.