III. ISLEY, P.

((PHONE CALL AND DR. HURT GOES HERE))

“A fuck means everything to you, doesn’t it?”

Her name is Pamela Isley. She has killed fourteen men. All with poisons.

“I know your type. It’s like some Holy Grail for you,” she goes on. “This idea that you can have someone that cares for you completely, without question. A lapdog.” She ran a hand through her thick waves of red hair in midsentence, a coy smile crossing her lips.
“What makes you so sure that’s what I want?” I ask.
“Because I know what everyone wants. Everyone wants to be wanted.”

Our interview has barely begun. She has casually tossed out these remarks after my first few questions. None of which she has answered.

The entourage is all here: Jeremiah Arkham, director of Arkham Asylum, in the back corner of the room, just outside my peripheral vision; Justine Crowley, public relations for the asylum, is seated beside me for support; Dr. Harleen Quinzel, Arkham’s chief psychiatrist, is also seated, an empty space between herself and I for good measure. Her disdain for me since Dent’s interview is almost tangible. Isley, the inmate, sits in the observation cell chair at an angle, legs crossed, one arm draped over the back of the chair while the other lay lightly on her hip.

“You’re generalizing,” I point out.
“I am. But how do you know if I’m lying?”
“I don’t.”
“Taking everything with a grain of salt, then?”
“A truckload. I hear it’s good for plants.”
She laughs heartily. “You’re witty. Boring, but witty.”
“I’m boring?”
“Let’s find out,” she sits up in her chair, as if ready to pounce. “Up for a game of twenty questions?”
I smile mirthlessly. “Why not?”
At least she’s talking, I muse.

“So Harry, how many drugs have you tried?”
“Harland. And none.”
“Break any laws?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
“Kill anybody?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so. How many people have you slept with, then?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“And I don’t have to continue this interview.”
She folds her arms, a victorious smile on her face that under different circumstances would have been attractive, like genuine laughter at a flat joke.
“Come on. It’s probably in the single digits. Can you count them on one hand?”
She pauses. “On one finger?”
“My personal life is none of your business.”
“Ah. The faithful type. How predictable,” she nods. “You probably have the same line you use when you flirt, too. The ‘smile and look away.’ Girls love that one. Gives off a nice vibe that says ‘I’m a creep, but I’m hoping you’ll look past that for the sensitive guy I pretend to be.’” Her jade eyes study me beneath her sharp eyebrows. “It’s tried and true, that’s why they don’t go for it. Ever tried to experiment with something else?”

I smile with a spasm. She gets off on antagonizing. Interesting.
“Such as?” I ask.
“Walk up to a girl in a crowd. Whisper in her ear what you want to do to her. Then say, ‘My place. Twenty minutes. Wear something easy to take off.’ Then hand her your address, or hotel room. Not your number.”
“I’m not that type of guy.”
“What’s the matter?” she says teasingly, gesturing to Jeremiah. “Daddy got you down?”
Isley sighs impatiently.
"You never really know someone unless you sleep with them. That nice cougar you hit on at the bar might be the one who’s into whips and chains, while that goth girl hiding in the corner just loves nice, vanilla missionary.”

“Watch it, Isley,” Crowley warns. Quinzel glowers at her. It’s not her place to speak for a job that isn’t hers. But I’m grateful nonetheless.

“‘You’re not that type of guy,’” Isley scoffs. “Everyone’s that type. We’re all just horny and waiting to be fucked.”
“Charming worldview,” I mutter. I try not to hide my disgust.
“Take a look outside, boy,” she grins. “Watch some TV. Read a few magazines. Surf the internet. You’ll see exactly what I mean. Even if your denial or your daddy won’t let you.”
“Denial?” I shake my head. “Do I look blind to you, Miss Isley?”
“‘Miss Isley.’ You insist on being the nice guy. You want to buy me a drink?”
I play along.
“We haven’t finished our game of twenty questions.”
“I’m past that,” she says flippantly. “Have you ever done anything just to do it? Anything.”
“I prefer to have reasons for what I’m doing,” I tell her.
She wrinkles her nose. “Yuck. You are boring. Kind of like Dr. Barbie over there.”
She nods at Quinzel and licks her lips. Quinzel barely blinks. She’s used to this. “Too bad she’s got her panties in a wad.”

“For an interview, you sure like asking the questions, don’t you, Isley?” Quinzel interrupts.
“I like getting to know people. The fun ones, mostly, but here, beggars can’t be choosers,” Isley retorts. “Half the things people say are distortions.”

“Who says people don’t tell the truth?” I press.
“Because lying is more fun. Makes you look better. How many lies do you tell, Harry?” She waves her index finger at me.
“Harland.”
“Cute name. But not your real one.”
“Hieronymus is a bit… wordy.”
“Like you?” She raises her eyebrows. “More like a mouthful. Less like you.”
I laugh shortly. It’s a game.

“You never answered my questions on girlfriends, ‘Harland.’ And since you’re the faithful type, that makes you either crazy or celibate. Guess which one I think you are.”
“Like a priest,” I say with a grin. Crowley chuckles.
Isley doesn’t laugh. “Now you’re lying.”
“Lying is more fun, isn’t it?”
“You already have a girlfriend,” she prods. “This makes things more interesting. Does she know you’re here, talking to me?”
I don’t answer.
“You ever think she’s seeing someone else?”
“It’s not something I like to consider.”
“Really? Because I think you could make it fun. Monogamy is overrated, anyway,” she shrugs. “Makes people jealous and possessive as hell. For argument’s sake, we’ll say she has… three. Three others on the side. Two guys and a girl. Who knows, you might have a fun threesome. Or throw them in all together. Pays to keep your options open, Harland.”
I laugh, more genuinely. Crowley throws me a sideways glance. A warning. Isley's guesses are like watching a blindfolded person play darts.
“Like you dating a guy, for instance."

She strikes. I must have shown something visible. Mannerism, maybe. No, not possible. Silence?
“How’s that for subjectivity?” Isley mocks.
She’s eating this up.

My mind is racing through options. Comebacks. All pithy and obsolete. I can feel him looking at me. Jeremiah. Quinzel stares at me with… what is that look? Revulsion? I can’t look at Crowley. A cold tingle of sweat rushes up my body, slowly, until it reaches my throat and squeezes. Can’t look now.

“What, daddy doesn’t know his son’s a fruit? Oh, this is too much.”
I can’t move. The words won’t go anywhere, not even a rush of wind to force them out. The air is dry.
“You’re crossing the line, Isley. Can it,” Crowley growls.
“So what are you, top? Bottom?” Isley asks me. “Come on. Why do I even ask?” she laughs to herself. “You look like a bottom. The kind of passive, pathetic type ordinary people get power complexes over because they’re such pushovers.”
“I’m not gay,” I insist.
“And I’m not playing anymore,” Isley smiles cruelly. “I’m sure your boyfriend would love to hear that. If he can hear anything above the moans of the guy he’s screwing right now. Or getting screwed by. As we speak. He probably likes it more.”
“I said can it, Isley!” Crowley again.
My fists are clenching. Something bad inside me asks if she’s right. I can’t get mad. Can’t get angry.

I am.

“But I can sympathize,” Isley says affectionately. “Gay men are the worst of all of them. Almost as bad as us girls. It’s like a trade-up system. You get your fill of one before another comes along that’s better. Because, Harland, people want a pornstar, not a bookkeeper. And you’re a fucking librarian.”
I want to hit her.
“Ever watch any porn, Harland? Have you seen the guys your kind wants to have? Take a look in the mirror—or beneath your belt—and see if you match up. What you like can’t be too far from what you like to watch.”
Ask a question. I need to ask a question.
“W-W-What do you believe in, Miss Isley?”
She snickers. “I believe your dad is so proud of you right now. Stuttering, gay and all.”
“Harland. You need to walk away. Now,” Crowley whispers in my ear.
“I asked you a q-question.” I can’t run away. I want to cry.

“Here’s one for you: how long are you?”
At first I think I’ve misheard her. “Excuse me?!”
“You heard me.”
The room is spinning. She takes it and runs with it.
“It’s all right. I’ve had small guys. Big guys. But the big guys were more fun. They knew how to give me just what I wanted. How to take control. They could do whatever they wanted to me, and I’d let them every time.”
She leans forward, looking right at me.
“Is that what your boyfriend wants?”

I want to scream. Howl in rage and pound the glass. Make her face a bloody pulp.
I stop suddenly, rethink my irrationality. My thoughts of cruelty cease. The room goes cold when I have my epiphany. My head is fuzzy for a second. Then it goes clear.

I don’t need to cry anymore.

“What was the best part?” I ask her.
She pauses. Surprise, on her part. “About what?”
“Taking control of them. The men you killed.”
She smiles. Quinzel’s head jerks towards me, aghast. “What are you doing?” she demands in a whisper.
“I got to seduce them,” Isley answers. “Sometimes steal them from someone they actually cared about. Satisfy their every fantasy and leave them begging for more. Leave them when I got bored. Watch them come crawling back. Have dinner, knowing that every spoonful they shoved into their cute faces would kill them. Fuck them that same night. Rinse and repeat. Watch them wither away to nothing. Play the grieving girlfriend at their funerals. A few flowers on their grave while they turn to worm food. Then I get to do it all again, as much as I want.”

“You must feel pretty lucky. Having that control. Tell me something, though,” I lean forward slightly, imitating her earlier gesture. “Were any of them beautiful?”

“What?”
“Beautiful. You know. Good-looking? Or did you just dupe the ugly ones?”
“I only had the best. Why do you ask?”
“Only because your idea of beautiful differs from mine.”
She slides back in her chair, amused. “How so?”
“Ever had someone who loved you?”

She chuckles, folds her arms. “And now you’re a greeting card.”
“It’d be easy for you,” I continue earnestly. “It is easy for you to find someone like that. Someone who’d treat you right. Who’d ask you about your day. Who’d do the dishes and raise kids, a quiet house in the suburbs. A normal life. It’s what you want, isn’t it?” I allow mocking sympathy to frost my tone. “Because everyone wants to be loved.”
Isley’s eyes flicker.

“Why would I want that when no one can resist me?” she says slyly.
“I’m not so sure,” I counter. “I wonder how many of those men you’ve killed. The nice ones, who were willing to give you a chance,” I shrug. “But what does it matter? All you are is an object for their pleasure. You may have killed them, but only after they got what they wanted from you to begin with. They got the best you had to offer.”
She’s quiet.
“Those decent men you say don’t exist, but really do… well, they don’t exist,” I say sardonically. “Not for you. They pass you over. Let’s face it, Miss Isley… you aren’t what they call ‘relationship material.’ You’re the type that most men wouldn’t clean their apartments for. Let alone the backseat of their cars. Because when men smile at you… you know what’s behind that smile.”

And I smile at her.

“Stop it,” Isley mutters.
“A bedroom and messy sheets,” I wave my hands dismissively. “But let’s not argue over spilt body fluids. Mindless passion. Let me grab you a tissue.”
“Stop,” I hear Jeremiah order, somewhere in the back of the room.
“In the end, you’re just a fuck,” I go on. “A few hours of usefulness, then you’re something the other dogs get to bite on. All covered in shit, spit, and lube.”
“Stop it now.”

“How does it feel to be a used sex toy, Ms. Isley?”

“FUCK YOU!” she screams, her ruby lips curled back so far they’re pale in color. “FAGGOT! MOTHERFUCKING CUNT!!!” Her fists blindly pound the glass, over and over, their loud thuds filling the observation room with their hollow sound.

“You’re done,” Jeremiah whispers lowly in my ear. I could care less.

I stand from my chair, as if to leave.
“All you are is a beautiful body with an ugly soul,” I shout above her furious screams. “People may want you. Nobody would love you.”

“This interview is over. Get out,” Quinzel commands.

I make sure to look at Isley as I click off the tape recorder. “I got everything I wanted.”
“You’re all the same,” Isley mumbles, her head in her hands, locks of red hair flowing down to her lap. “All the same.”
I leave her to her misery.

I am barely outside the door when the rush of what just happened hits me and my knees feel like gelatin. Jeremiah knows. Quinzel whips me around to face her, nearly knocking me to the floor. She opens her mouth to yell something before Crowley snatches my arm.
“Come with me,” she says sternly, stealing me from the wrath of Quinzel. I am thankful to her once more until I become aware of the lack of warmth in her voice. She pulls me aside, speaking in hushed, low tones.
“Do you have any idea what she’s been through?”
“I—” I stammer.
“No. You have no idea. Yes, she’s a killer. Yes, she made you feel like shit. She loves tearing people down and it is her greatest pleasure in life. But she is not that way because she wants to be. She is that way, Harland, because she feels like she has to be. She is locked in a cage and you decided to beat her down further instead of looking past that for who she really is.”
“She outed me--”
“Will you think outside yourself for one second?!” her voice breaks. “One second,” she collects herself. “Harvey Dent was a good person once. Pamela Isley was, too. There are people here who have been so run-down, so broken that they will lash out at anyone, even those who try to help them. You can fool yourself into thinking they were always like that. But I let you in here so you could do what I felt you still can. Help. And instead, you’re using their own pathologies against them… just because they caused you pain.”
Crowley takes a deep breath.
“I’m going to recommend Dr. Quinzel to evaluate you and your project. One-on-one. And it’s not because I’m angry.” She shakes her head, bites her lip. “It’s because I’m disappointed.”
Stunned, I watch her walk down the hallway, hands in her pockets, not looking back.

The presence of Quinzel beside me is a numb reminder of the interview, lost somewhere in my memory.
“She may want me to evaluate you. But I am expellin' you from this asylum. And if your father has any sense, he will too,” she says quietly, officially.

I turn to look at my father. My anger returns in floods.
“You hung me out to dry,” I accuse him. “You abandoned me in there!!”
He stares at me. Pitifully. “I never left,” he says softly.
Then he turns and walks away.

I am alone.

********

The one-story building is windowless, yet lines of pink and yellow neon glower at me from the building’s roof and storefront sign. Two other cars, a beat-up van and a late-model Lexus, are the only other vehicles in the narrow parking lot I stand in. The sign above us features a carefully concealed busty woman with long black hair, reclining across the word “ROMANTICS” seductively. Beneath her, the door to the building is covered in reflective tape that makes it impossible to see inside, save for the narrow shreds time or drunk customers have ripped away.
“What are you waiting for?” Austin asks me curiously.
“I’ve never been to one of these before,” I reluctantly explain.
“There’s a first time for everything,” he reassures me. “I’m glad I get to be here for yours. C’mon,” he says affectionately, taking my hand. “Don’t be shy.”

And I follow him inside.

Opening the door reveals a world of exacting white light and colors. We walk down a ramp beneath an oversized banner of a spread-eagled nude woman clutching her breasts in ecstasy, a thinner blonde man on her left and a muscular dark-haired man on her right with their hands between her legs. The store’s setup is straightforward: adult magazines organized by demographic and fetish are arranged in long rows along the left-hand half of the room, each catering to a wide variety of tastes with a few I didn’t want to think about. The walls are blanketed in shelves of sectioned-off DVDs, their covers competing to be the most arousing and provocative among the others that surround them. After a few seconds, they all start to look like the same men and women to me, the skin tones and hair colors melding together into the same repetitive shades and shapes. To our right is the women’s section, with racks of clothes beyond my understanding: an amalgam of hooks, clasps, and piecemeal fabrics that could hide or reveal whatever one wanted. With clothes like that, who needs nudity?

Directly ahead of us is a glass stand with plastic bottles holding a spectrum of multi-flavored liquids, all laying claim to how stimulating they were and whether they were water- or silicone-based. I pick up one that says “Blue Raspberry” and take a sniff. It smells like strong sugary candy, with a vague hint of what I could only place as ‘plastic.’

“IDs, gentlemen,” the clerk waves us over without looking up. A middle-aged man in a baseball cap takes the black bag the clerk gives him and walks past us nonchalantly. Perhaps this is something he does every day, I wonder.

“Find something good and meet me back here,” he tells me. “Bet you’ll like my choice more,” he grins.

Screw my choice, with that smile. I look around to humor him.

I find myself near the rear of the store. Everyone on the videos’ covers is too unrealistic. Perfect proportions, exaggerated physical features. Real people don’t look like this.

I don’t see the three men in the next aisle until I bump into them. The man I run into is in his mid-thirties, scruffy-looking, wearing a yellow flannel shirt.

“Excuse me,” I apologize.

“You lost?” he asks.

“No, just looking around,” I say dismissively. His two buddies, a bald young man and a dark-haired man about the same age as Flannel Shirt, turn to look at me. Their gaze drifts up and down my body like I’m another video in the store.

“Check out the back with us,” Flannel Shirt says. “I’m sure we could find plenty for you to like.”

“No thanks,” I tell them, and keep walking. Bald guy moves to block my way.

“I think I know just what he likes.”

The fear blossoms up to my throat. They’ve surrounded me.

“I said, ‘no thanks,’” I say emphatically.

Bald guy smirks and takes my arm.

“The fuck is this?” I hear his voice from the row across us. Austin steps into the aisle we occupy, looking each man in the eye from right to left. “Go home. He’s with me.”

“Cute toy, short stuff,” the bald man nods his head to me. “Maybe we wanna play.”

“Go fuck yourselves.”

The other two step forward.

“You want to know how I play?” Austin warns, lifting up his shirt to expose the black handle of a knife sticking up from his waistband.

“Whoa, chill out, Mighty Mouse. He’s yours.” Bald guy lets go of my arm. The men nearly trip over themselves heading for the exit.

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you--

“That was your problem,” Austin cuts me off. “Next time, handle it. Don’t expect me to save your ass every time.”

My chest caves at his words. He looks at me, perplexed and annoyed for a moment, before the anger in his face softens. “I won’t always be there to save you. But you need to know that you’re capable of saving yourself. Sometimes you have no choice but to face that kind of thing on your own.”

He walks away and I follow. We leave the porn shop without buying anything.

********
I call him when I'm eating lunch in my room. I need to hear his voice.
"Not everyday I have Arkham Asylum on the line," he says when he recognizes me. The subtle twang of his accent makes it easier to hear the smile in his words. "Figured they were calling me to say you’d escaped.”
“I haven't."
“You’re upset.” Forgot he can read me that fast.
"My dad--he knows. Found out today."
"Arthur?"
"No, my real dad." I hate using the phrase 'real dad' to describe him.
"Jeremiah. He knows--about us?"
"Me, for certain. Maybe us, too."
"You knew it had to come to this."
"Yeah, no... it doesn't matter."
"You worry too much."
"I'm scared."
"Scared?" He's confused. "Why?"
"I'm not--I'm not strong like you are." My chest feels like it's sinking.
"It’s not like you’re at an insane asylum or anything."
I chuckle, glad he can make me smile. “Lighten up. You're taking this too seriously."
"Yeah, yeah, I know,” I tell him. “I just feel trapped here, that's all."
“You could just leave.”
“…no. I’m finishing what I started here. I’m going to graduate on time, with my thesis. Can’t let you beat me to the podium.”
“See? You’re stronger than you think,” he says. “Besides, ‘Arkham’ comes before ‘Cooper’ on the call sheet, so I think you’re safe. Even if we skip.”
“Why would I want to skip graduation?”
“Oh, I’ve got a few ideas,” he says coyly. “Nothing that can’t wait, though.”
I can’t stop smiling. "Hey, um... I need to ask you something."
"Uh-oh. Is this one of your 'what if' scenarios again?"
I take a deep breath, willing myself to say what I need to know.
"Am I... am I enough for you?"
The line is silent and I tense.
"What makes you say that, Harland?"
I laugh nervously. "This interview today, um... she said some things that made me think."
"You mean, made you scared."
I lick my lips, feeling guilty for bringing it up. "Yeah."
"Don't be scared. I'm not."
"That's not helping."
"Then picture me right there beside you. And between you and me, I'm not one to be crossed."
"You shouldn't have to be my protector," I mutter.
"I will if you need protecting. And besides... I think you think I make a pretty sexy protector."
I laugh with a snort. "That right?"
"Remember that time, in your room, when your foot got caught in the bedsheets?" His deep belly-laugh rushes through me. I shudder involuntarily at how much I love the sound. "As I recall, I was the one who had to rope you back into bed by those sheets," he says, and I can picture his sly smile as he speaks. "I think next time I see you I'll skip the bed entirely. Does that answer your question?"
I blush and laugh sheepishly. My underwear has suddenly become too restrictive.
"Mmm. Yeah. It does."
"Hopefully I'll be enough for you."
"You are. Always have been," I tell him. "Have things at home gotten any better?"
He is quiet for a moment. The suddenness of his silence makes my mind scramble. "It's being dealt with," he finally mutters.
I sink into the bed, furious at myself for killing the mood.
"You aren't being shipped out, are you?"
He scoffs. "Couldn't do anything about it if I was."
"You could use my room at the university if you need a place to stay."
"I don't need your help. I can deal with this on my own."
"I--I know you can. I never doubted you. It just bothers me to hear you like this. It's not a weakness to ask for help, you know."
"I don't need help."
"Ok. I'm sorry. I'll leave you alone." I don't want to go.
He sighs, frustrated. "Stay," he says. "I just miss you, that's all."
I want to say something to him. Something meaningful, that gets past all the banter.

No. Not the right time.

"I miss you too," I tell him instead. "I'll be back soon and we can talk more about this."
Someone knocks at my door. Not now. Please, not now. I don't want to stop talking.
"Hey, I've got to go. Talk to you soon, Austin."
He hangs up with a hesitant goodbye and when I set down the phone’s receiver, I feel alone again.

“How’s lunch?” Crowley asks when I open the door.
“Salisbury steak,” I hold up my lunch tray. The awkwardness between us is better left unspoken. “I’m not that hungry. Visiting the cafeteria was something else to do.” I set my tray beside the door to my guest room and slide down the wall until I sit on the floor next to it. "I'm sorry about yesterday."
"Jeremiah wants Quinzel to give your evaluation before he considers anything else,” she tells me. She leans forward to meet my eyes. “It’s OK. Don't worry about it."
I nod, look away into a mirror across the room, folding my gangly arms into my chest. The red puffiness around my eyes is still there from before the phone call. My reflection looks… ugly.

“She wants to talk to you,” Crowley says after a few moments’ silence. “Isley.”
“I’m not interested.”
“She’s withholding key testimony in a trial,” Crowley goes on. “She’s not testifying until she talks to you.”

I sigh.
“I don’t want to do this.”
“Sometimes the biggest rewards come from doing things we have to do, not things we want to.”
“Will you be there?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Isley wants this to be one-on-one.”
Crowley hands me an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Open it,” she tells me.
I clumsily open the letter to find a card with the Zodiac printed upon it in red ink. I flip the card over.
Number XII - The Hanged Man. The Tarot card from my reading. Sacrifice.
I take a deep breath, smile briefly. I take this as encouragement.
“Bring on the noose, Miss Crowley,” I say with a grin that doesn’t feel forced. She returns my smile.

Crowley walks me to the far corner of D block, past the observation room. When we open the door, the muted scents of flowers and greenery flood my nostrils. The asylum greenhouse, like the observation room, is visible behind a pane of glass, only this glass has mildew at its edges. Its plants range from ferns and lush vines to tropical flowers and a bed of roses.
Isley is sitting in a chair, head down, deep in thought.
“I’ll keep your lunch in my office,” Crowley offers before she leaves.

I wait a few moments after her departure before I approach the glass.
“Hello, Miss Isley,” I say hesitantly, preferring to stand rather than sit in the lone chair before the glass. I fold my arms to hide their tenseness.
She looks up, sees me, and smiles. Though this smile lacks of cruelty.
“Can I tell you something, Hieronymus?” Isley says to me. Her voice is soft. Not like the woman I interviewed.
I nod, unwilling to speak and give her more to use against me.

“If there is anything you need to learn… it’s that you have to be confident. Because if you aren’t… you lose. So much.” Her eyes are looking past me, yet at me. “You’re something volatile. Untrustworthy. A pit to fall into instead of a person to fall for.”
She shifts in her seat, her hands on her thighs. Her mane of loose red hair bobs with her movement.

“So you find things to fall for instead. Things that will pass the time, match the happiness you once had but can’t seem to find. Because you have to move on. I…” she trails off. “I was happy once. I just don’t remember when.”
She folds her arms in her lap, then stands up, moving to a bed of roses within the chamber.
"Why tell me all this?" I ask her.
"Because I was wrong," she explains. "You are different. You're the same as me. Only on the other side of the glass." She picks up a pair of white plastic shears and crouches down to the dirt.

“I live for nature now. It’s constant,” she says firmly. With a quick contraction of her wrist, the shears clip a long-stemmed rose from the bed in full bloom. It falls into her hand, not a petal out of place.

“A rose will never lie, never leave, never cheat, steal or abuse. It… it just is there to be held--if only for a while. It only hurts if you hold it the wrong way. And it always grows back.”
Isley’s jade eyes stare somewhere into the crimson petals, her delicate fingers twirling the solitary flower in her hands. She places it at the edge of the observation glass by my feet before retreating to her darkened sanctuary.