Gilbert decided that it was better not to linger in this room, looking at this man was making his stomach do flips. He walked quickly down the hallway, his mind stuck firmly on the man he had just seen and the impossibility of it all. This little asylum in upstate New York was as far as he possibly could have gotten from a war-torn corner of Poland, how could the past follow him like this? He felt a sudden shiver run through him, even as he walked, making the rhythm of his steps falter. He stopped and, taking a deep breath, finally thought to contemplate where he was going.
He knew he could go to his room, wherever that was. But, considering that he didn't know where that was; he was left with quite the dilemma. This was a big building and getting lost didn't seem wise. He could run into more unintended ghosts, and that was not something he was prepared for. He looked around the vacant hallway and started to swear under his breathe in German.
The lights strung on the wall flickered suddenly and a cold wind seemed to whip down the hallway. It carried on it an icy voice, one smooth but impossibly cold, "Is your conscious starting to hurt?" Gilbert turned and looked in the direction the wind was coming from. The cold air blew his hair back and stung his eyes. There was no one to be seen anyone else in the hall. Quickly, he turned around the other way to look at the other end of the hall. Again, he saw nothing.
"What are you doing?" the derisive voice spoke directly behind him. Gilbert turned again and found himself almost unnervingly close to a boy who looked almost precisely like the one who had greeted him at the door. But, the look on the brunette's face made it clear that this was the other twin. Still slightly shaken, he responded, "Just trying to get my bearings, that's all." The other responded with a scoff, "The look on your face says otherwise. You look like you've seen a ghost or something. I can show you to your room." As the boy turned and beckoned to him to follow, Gilbert whispered under his breathe, "I did." Thankfully, the other didn't hear him. It was not normal to see things and hear voices carried on strangely cold draughts of air, and an insane asylum was not the place to admit to hearing and seeing things that weren't actually there. He followed after the brunette, who had not felt the need to introduce himself.
They wound through a labyrinth of hallways and up a flight of stairs until they reached an ornately carved wooden door, which the brunette unlocked with a skeleton key, "This is your room." Gilbert nodded and walked into the room. The boy followed him, but abruptly left as soon as he put the key down on the table walked out again. The room seemed to absorb light. The walls were paneled in dark wood; the floor was also wood covered with a thick dark Persian rug. The furnishings were also made of the same exceptionally dark wood. The windows were completely covered by heavy red curtains that gave the entire room the feeling of being completely blocked off from the outside world. The light came from a series antique looking lamps that were retrofitted to use electricity. The only thing that was eye catching in the room was a large ornate mirror that was mounted in-between the dresser and the closet. In front of the mirror was a low table, which apparently functioned as a vanity.
Gilbert continued to look around and spotted his own briefcase and overcoat sitting next to the door, so well arranged that they looked like a still life trying to subtly convey the glory of the businessman. He decided to leave it where it was and examine the rest of the space. He soon found a door that connected to an adjoining bedroom, which contained a large bed and another mirror mounted just next to the door, facing the bed directly. Above the bed hung a single simple wooden cross.
This last piece of decoration most offended him; it seemed to presume that he even had a religion, let alone one that required him to have a cross above his head. Catholicism was something that didn't sit particularly well with him. He had seen too many priests suffer just as much as anyone else with no help from their God. He walked over to the head of the bed and reached up to take the cross off the wall. It came off the nail with only a little bit of effort, but it left a dusty cross on the wall. Gilbert took the cross out of the bedroom and over to a chest of drawers. He jerked open one of the drawers and deposited the cross in the drawer. As he put it down the cross, a splinter of the wood embedded itself in his finger.
Gilbert swore again as he felt the pain of the splinter. It was puzzling, the cross had appeared to be smooth varnished wood, but the splinted had broken off almost as if the cross was attacking him. He slammed the drawer shut, hiding the offensive object. The next order of business was to get the piece of wood out of his finger. He brought the injured finger to his mouth and was able to get the end of the splinter firmly between his teeth. He pulled slowly to get the splinter out of his finger. When he got the splinter all the way out, a small drop of blood blossomed from the wound. Gilbert took the piece of wood from between his teeth with his other hand and put the bleeding finger between his lips. When he removed the finger from his mouth, it had stopped bleeding.
Gilbert continued his examination of the room. The contents of his suitcase, which he had had delivered earlier, were already in the closet. There was one other door in the bedroom, which led to a rather claustrophobic bathroom. Having finally looked over the whole of the room, Gilbert felt a sense of relief wash over him and with it a strange sense of lethargy. His day had already been too strenuous. Suddenly laying down and closing his eyes sounded tempting. But, he had to shake it off. Now that he was here, he had things to do. He walked over to briefcase and picked it up. The bed had the most accessible space, so it was to there that he carried the briefcase.
He had been sent a few case files in advance so he could start working as soon as possible. He took three folders and laid them out on the bed. They were, as far as he could tell, fairly normal cases for criminal insanity. They had two murder charges, one with very interesting mutilation and torture, one rape charge, and one charge of arson. Gilbert had been attempting to figure out how to treat each of them effectively. He pulled out his notepad, which had "Electroshock them all!" written and underlined at the top the page.
He uncapped his sleek back ballpoint pen and placed the tip of the pen on the pad. He stared down at one of the files. The words began to swim in front of his eyes. It was strange, considering he had been running on adrenaline not more than an hour ago. But the room was warm and the bed was soft. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of the sleepiness. He looked back down at one of the files. He was reading again when his vision started turning fuzzy again. His eyelids fluttered closed and he was immediately consumed by sleep.
Gilbert was standing at a familiar set of train tracks, wearing an all too familiar uniform. It was late fall and the rain was coming down in sheets. Drops of water rolled off the brim of his hat and falling to the ground and mixing with the river flowing down the dirt path. He put out a hand and felt the rain rolling down his hand. This scene was all too familiar, but this is not where he had been on this day. He turned around just in time to hear the shot clear and sharp, the same way he had heard it years ago.
The world seemed to warp around him and the scene changed. He was now standing on the muddy ground outside of the camp. His boots were slowly sinking into the mud, but that was irrelevant. His eyes were drawn to the scene in front of him. The one he already knew he would see, for the second time in his life. The SS officer was standing behind with his hand outstretched and a pistol smoking. In front, the tall body of the Russian commissar fell limply to the ground, a bullet lodged firmly in the back of his head. Gilbert had stood silently on the actual day, but now he ran forward. It was the couple steps, laden with insurrection, which he had never taken. But in this moment, he took them and ran to the body lying on the ground.
He fell to his knees in the mud, staining his immaculate uniform with the black earth. His heart was aching in his chest. He could see Ivan's back, but what he wanted to be able to see again was the face of the man, and those enchanting eyes. He grabbed the man's shoulder and turned the body over. The violet eyes stared unseeing into the sky. Suddenly Gilbert felt a hand on his shoulder, the fingers were digging into his flesh. The strength in the hand was beyond human. The voice came loud and sharp in his ear, "Look at what you did."
Gilbert gasped and tried to turn his head. Another hand grabbed him by the hair and kept him facing the corpse. He spoke all the same, even facing away from the man he wanted to address, "I didn't pull the trigger. I didn't kill you, Ivan." The thickly accented voice behind him spoke, "You said the words, 'that man is no common solider'. Your words condemned me." The rain around him turned suddenly thicker, rolling down in what were now red sheets. Gilbert stared at his hands as they were covered in red liquid. The rain had turned to blood, which was now falling even harder and mixing with the earth. The smell of iron and earth rose in a stifling way. The scent filled Gilbert's nose. He tasted bile in his throat. Gilbert felt decade-old tears released from his eyes, the feeling of guilt washing over him.
The pressure on the back of his head intensified, bowing him closer to the ground. Ivan spoke again, his voice full of incomparable rage, "You know you're guilty. Now admit it." Gilbert shook his head franticly, attempting to find a way to deny it. Ivan shook the hand in the German's hair and said again, his voice actually rose this time, "Admit your guilt!" Gilbert tried to force his head back up, but only managed to increase the pain of the grip on his hair. He wanted to look away from the now bloodstained corpse in front of him, but Ivan's grip would not let him. Struggling to get the words out over the lump in his throat, he finally managed to say, "I admit it. I'm guilty." The voice behind him said simply, "Good."
The weight of the hands on him lifted and Gilbert felt a moment of relief. However, it was quickly replaced by a sense of terror as he started to slowly sink deeper into the mix of mud and blood, which had turned unbearably thick and heavy. It was as if Ivan's hands had been holding him up and now he could do nothing to stop himself from getting pulled under into the mass of bloody quick sand. He sunk steadily deeper into the blackness of the mud, his body only seeming to get heavier and more immobile. He tried to inhale and his mouth was immediately filled with a mix of dirt and blood. He looked up and got one last look at a pair of shining violet eyes before the black earth closed above him.
Gilbert jerked awake, kicking a file off the bed as he did. He looked around the room frantically before coming to the conclusion that he had been dreaming. It had all felt so vividly real though; he almost expected to look down and see blood still covering his hands and dirt underneath his nails. With a sigh of relief he finally relaxed. However, sitting on this bed felt like the wrong thing to do. He dreaded the idea that he could fall back asleep and slip into another hellish nightmare. He slowly pushed himself up and clambered off the bed. He wondered how long he had been asleep for and if anyone had missed him. It had been clear that he was not expected to work on cases his first day, so it was likely that no one had missed him.
He ran one hand over his face, which was still slightly wet. His hands were still shaking from the adrenaline of the dream. He took a couple steps closer to the mirror that was facing the bed to look at himself. Gilbert saw his own face reflected on the dark backdrop of the dimly lit room. He looked terrible. His usually neatly combed hair was messy and his clothing looked as though he had been thrashing around in his sleep. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to gather his thoughts. He could not look shaken by the dream, or someone may notice and ask what was unnerving him. The prerequisite to having nightmares of this sort was having experiences on which to base them. Gilbert was quite certain that he didn't want to share his experiences with anyone here, or indeed, anyone at all.
He slowly reopened his eyes and as he did so, noticed that he was not alone. Standing right behind him, with a look of something like patience on his face, was the Russian he had just dreamt about. Gilbert gasped and attempted to turn around, but the Russian suddenly went from being a couple feet behind him to being so close that Gilbert could feel breathe on the back of his neck. He hadn't seen Ivan's hands move, but one was now pinning both his hands above his head against the smooth surface of the mirror. The other hand appeared, holding a knife, at his throat. Gilbert swallowed his objections, with a knife at his throat; it would be no time to speak. The man behind him was undoubtedly Ivan; he recognized the face and the voice from his dream. The question was how could Ivan be here, right now. Gilbert knew he couldn't be mistaken; he had seen the Russian man's corpse. And yet, he could feel the blood, very alive, coursing through the veins in the hands pressed against his own.
Ivan spoke in a low voice in his ear, "My dear doctor, you should be dead or in a cell by now and you know why." Gilbert started trying to resist against the hold, struggling to break himself free. It failed completely as Ivan's hands tightened, vice-like, on his wrists. The pressure was so intense that Gilbert could feel the bones of his wrists being pressed together. Ivan continued to talk, holding the knifes steadily to the German's throat, "The harder you fight, the more it hurts. Now look at yourself." Gilbert immediately felt his chin forced back to facing the mirror, he had been looking away in an attempt to get a good at Ivan. In the mirror he could see himself, trapped like a rabbit with Ivan smiling behind him.
Gilbert tried to say something, but even as he opened his mouth the words got caught in his throat. He felt like he was choking on them. A smirk appeared on Ivan's face, "and no back talk. For once, you're going to listen instead." Now that he was certain he had complete control, the Russian slowly, smoothly moved the blade from the porcelain throat to the front of the button-up shirt. In one swift motion, he cut the tie and all the buttons off. The front of his shirt fell open, exposing Gilbert's pale chest. Ivan spoke again, his lips almost touching the shell of Gilbert's ear, "How did those fools who liberated the camp not know what you were? The evidence is right here" He used the knife to slice all the way up the left sleeve, revealing the arm and a very clear tattoo on the underside of the upper arm that simply said, "AB".
They both knew what that tattoo meant and this is what Ivan addressed, "One tattoo to speak to all the horror you were a part of. Maybe it should be a little clearer." He pressed one finger to the tattoo. Pain seared through Gilbert at once, blinding and sharp. It felt like his skin was burning, all of it at once. There was no way to silence the scream that ripped its way out of his throat. With his eyes nearly closed against the pain, all he could see in the mirror was dark shapes moving over his skin, turning the entire white surface black. The pain intensified as they moved farther over his body. Gilbert could hardly pull in a single breath, it felt as though his lungs had seized. He couldn't move and couldn't look away; he could only scream in agony.
After what felt like an eternity, Ivan took his finger off the tattoo. The pain stopped at once, which allowed Gilbert to open his eyes and finally see what Ivan's touch had done to him. His skin was now covered in tattoos, swastikas, SS bolts, and iron crosses. They covered his chest and his arms, stopping at his collarbone. These would be impossible to conceal, and even harder to explain away. Ivan's knife seemed to have disappeared, and now the hand was free. Ivan ran it slowly over the tattooed chest, which was apparently now very sensitive. Gilbert was able to bite his lip to keep from whining. Ivan's voice was in his ear again, "Do you like them? I think they suit you."
He was able to growl in response, but he still couldn't move. Ivan smirked again, "Oh you are angry. There is so much you would like to do to me right now isn't there? Too bad. I'm going to do what I want to you." He finally released Gilbert's hands and moved both of his hands to the albino's shoulders. With incredible speed, Ivan used his hands to throw him across the room onto the bed. The force of the throw had knocked all the air out of Gilbert's lungs. He attempted to push himself back up, but Ivan appeared on top of him. Gilbert looked up directly into Ivan's violet eyes, which were not angry or vengeful. Instead, the eyes reflected a strange kind of tenderness. He was finally able to speak, "Ivan, why have you decided to come back and torment me?" The Russian smiled, almost sweetly, "Because I want to bring you back where you belong." He leaned forward and kissed Gilbert lightly on the lips.
Gilbert jerked awake and heard a pounding on the door. He put his hand to his face. The second part of the dream had felt more staggeringly real than the first. It was almost like he could taste Ivan's lips again. But rationally he knew he had not tasted those Russian lips in more than a decade. He knew it had been a dream, but he had to check. He unbuttoned his shirt and looked down at his chest. The skin was completely blank. He had no tattoos that he could see. He sighed.
He knew why these dreams were coming now: It was because of that serial killer that looked exactly like Ivan. That face had brought up too many unpleasant memories and now they were manifesting themselves as nightmares. The solution to this was simple Gilbert just needed to stay away from that patient, with no stimulus, his overactive imagination would have nothing to feed off of. He got off the bed and decided he should answer the door, which was still being knocked on. First, he checked his reflection in the mirror. He must not have moved in his sleep, because everything he was wearing was in perfect order. That, at least was a relief; he wouldn't have to explain anything.
Then, certain that nothing was out of place, Gilbert walked out of the bedroom and to the door. When he pulled the door open, he saw Antonio standing just on the other side. The other spoke, "I have been knocking on your door for the past 10 minutes, did you not hear me?" Gilbert shook his head slowly in response, "I dozed off, I'm sorry. I thought you had no need for me."
Antonio sighed in response, "I was trying to talk to our new serial killer. He refuses to speak to anyone but you." The albino's heart jumped into his throat. This was exactly what he didn't want to hear. He responded, "Do we have to give him what he wants?" The other nodded, "I'm afraid we do. We need to make a recommendation to the court. I am putting him on your caseload. I'll take one of your other cases myself." He extended a file to Gilbert, "This is his file. Read it over. You'll talk to him this afternoon." Gilbert swallowed his objections and nodded. He knew this was the worst possible situation for him, but he couldn't object without an explanation. He simply took the file obediently and closed the door as Antonio left.