"It's nice to see you have an appetite," the nurse said, eyeing her.
Carmen swallowed. Heat rising to her cheeks as she stopped chewing. It was with some difficulty, she realized, she couldn't maintain eye contact with people for very long. Even when the nurse, although coming off as somewhat two-faced, displayed to Carmen her brightest smile, she found her attention slipping to her name tag.
Martha Newman, the name tag read.
"Oh. Please, don't mind me," the nurse chuckled, but there was nothing good natured about her then. Carmen couldn't help but think the woman's tone was colored with a sneer. This must be her other face finally rearing to the surface.
Then, a knock dragged both their attention, and Dr. Loomis pushed the door open and cleared his throat.
"Ah. Could you give us a moment, my dear?"
The nurse blinked and looked at Carmen slyly. "Of course," she inclined her head to the psychiatrist. Then to Carmen, "Take care sweetie. I'll check up on you soon."
Once the nurse left, Carmen put down her fork and her plate on the bedside table and blinked at Dr. Loomis.
"Hi…"
"Hello," he said, settling into one of the visitor chairs. "Is the food decent?"
"It's enough."
Dr. Loomis chuckled and it almost disarmed her of her fearfulness, which was set to the highest sensitivity, manifested from the nightmare she was living. But, for her to put down the only defense that had yet to fail her, would mean she was inviting worse things to happen, worse than when she was at Smith's Grove left alone with her brother.
It was why she couldn't bring herself to smile at the amicable, yet tired man. To smile was to feel joy, and that wasn't fear when the only friend she needed was fear.
"I was not so fortunate," Dr. Loomis said, "My hospital served me a meal I wouldn't feed my dog."
Carmen motioned to her face quickly. "How did you get that?"
His weathered look took on a shade of surprise.
"From a fire," Dr. Loomis answered tiredly, "One, I and another girl, your age, had started in an operating theater using ether and oxygen."
"And why would you do that?"
His expression darkens, not at her, but somewhere on the floor, the grimace of his forehead deeper than any she'd witnessed during the short time spent in his company.
"To stop a menace that would've killed us both."
In quiet realization, her eyes widened.
Dr. Loomis focused on the grooves of his cane, a ploy to avoid her stare, or the anger that may have been there.
"I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner," Dr. Loomis said, filled with rue, "But, I wasn't sure how you'd receive me if I'd introduced myself as the former caretaker of Haddonfield's poorly kept terror."
"Don't be. I—" Carmen stuttered, unable to separate fear from forgiveness in her tone. She wanted to put the man at ease because it called to her to be so. "I didn't see it coming. I didn't know much about Haddonfield when I moved here. Not even Adam."
Dr. Loomis raised his eyes and stared at her tenderly.
"Your brother will be found, Carmen." Dr Loomis promised, "He'll be tried and he'll answer for his crimes."
"Will I answer mine?"
Empathy softened his eyes. "What happened with Dr. Wynn...is not your fault."
Carmen ducked her head— the light suddenly too intense for her eyes. "Is it?"
"It's clear it was an accident," Dr. Loomis said firmly. "You were under a state of duress. Injured. Threatened. You're just a victim."
"Then, why do I feel responsible?"
Dr. Loomis sighed heavily.
"Because you are. You pulled the trigger."
Carmen felt her heart clench at the obviousness of his answer.
"But," he said, "I think the question you mean to ask is, "Why do you feel regret?" And, I can't provide any greater answer than that you are human and it is good to feel regret. It means you have a conscience. Others are not as gifted. Your brother for one. Michael— for another."
It would be the first time anyone had described guilt as a gift to her. But, she supposed it made good men. And good men took ownership of their actions be it resulting in right or wrong. But, her brother, for all the people he killed to get to Michael, would never want to spend the rest of his life in a cage. And, Michael, for all the people he killed to get to his sister, would never want to return to a cage where he had spent the majority of his life.
But, if they weren't good men, then they were bad men, and if they didn't answer for their crimes, if they never get caught, then would God answer for them? Would God smite them, as her mother had once told her he would?
"Carmen?"
Both Dr. Loomis and Carmen looked to the door where the stocky, unremarkable she called her father peered in, his manner as beaten as his face.
"I've come," Mr. Doe said. "I'm here now."