Cage

26.

Cage's POV

The hardest part of this job, this role, is the emotion people store in me, like a bad investment. It feels like I rob people of something, every time I gain their trust for a story to type out.

But this feels different. This is the toughest and highest ranked task I've been given. When my boss first came to me, I thought it was my big break.

I didn't quite grasp that I would quite literally have to break into a thousand tiny little worthless pieces. To feel the kind of self hatred that never quite goes away. To realise people matter more than work—something that should be obvious but sometimes goes into the background when aiming for money.

I thought that if I was heartless enough, if I had little emotion and was able to handle this case, that I'd be a success. I can't do it. I don't know how others do—to hurt without care.

Alex's eyes don't leave mine. I explain the process of the interview, that I will interview them and then she will have a chance to speak to them privately, but her eyes seem distant. Maybe she is thinking of all the ways she can exsanguinate me. I wouldn't blame her.

"Are you done glaring?" I ask. As soon as it's out my mouth I realise that it sounded a little mean. I'm just wishing to undo every action, but it's impossible and that makes me so angry . . . at myself.

I badly want to reach out and hold her again; to have her press her cheek to my chest and find safety in my arms. I'm afraid she will never allow herself to find safety anywhere, even if I do get her freedom.

She's never going to be the same, because of me.

The worst part is that my boss is proud of me. My co-workers smile at me and know my name in the office, after my return. Everyone else thinks this is good.

It's mind blowing how blind people can be to the truth. People see what benefits them; what aligns with their goals and beliefs. Even at the expense of their humanity.

I've lost my humanity here in this prison, but they want me to be proud. I can't.

I want everyone to hate me. I want the weight of my actions to come crushing down on me. I deserve to be hurt. But even in that, it would only be to make me feel better—as if the hate I receive will make up for my actions.

But there's an emptiness in Alex, even as she lowers her gaze from mine. "I'm ready," she says, her voice shaking.

"Is—Are there any questions you don't want me to ask?"

She shakes her head and then nods. I frown. "There is a question I want you to ask. Two questions." A pause. "Ask them, really, why they adopted me. I need to know. And ask them if they know what happened that night, when I came home with cuts on my face."

"Cuts on your face—what?" That man—Quinton. It has to have been him. I know he hurt her, I just didn't know the extent of it.

"Just ask them." She folds her arms across her chest, closing herself off.

I want to protect her. I should have. I can save her, but nothing will ever repair the damage that has been done to her. No words of mine can comfort her.

"Do you—Do you have a lighter?" she asks me.

"I don't smoke." I pay my pockets. "Why do you want it?"

She turns to the other guard. "What about you?"

He looks at me for confirmation. This must be a strange situation for him. I could deny her, but I want to give her everything she needs. I want to help her—even if she plans on burning this place to the ground.

"Give it to her," I say, which the officer does.

She lights the flame and stares at it, taking a deep breath. She takes another breath but it's shakier. She passes her finger through the flame. Over and over, too quick to be painful but slow enough to feel the heat.

"When I was young I always wished I'd feel something. It's why I liked you so much in school. You were the adrenaline, the dopamine, the fear and the love I wanted to experience." Her eyes glow with the orange light of the flame. "Now I wish I'd feel nothing at all. My body is always feeling, but it's never good. I want to turn it off. I want to . . ." A tear slowly slips down her cheek and she releases the button. The flame disappears.

She sighs again, still shaking, and hands the lighter back to the other guard. I wonder how she felt, seeing the flame. Did it remind her of something? Did it comfort her? Did she want it to hurt her? Did it help?

"I said I'm ready," she whispers, but she doesn't look it. If her voice and hands weren't shaking, then the way she runs her hand soothingly up and down her arm gives it away. Still, she tilts her head up and makes her way through the doors and into the visitors area.

There's only one way this is going to go: badly.

0•0•0•0•0

Je ne se pa.

Qotd: best self help book?

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