The Pawn and The Puppet (The Pawn and The Puppet series Book 1)

It is on this day that Dessin and I share an unspoken truth.

We don’t have to say it—but we can see it in each other’s eyes. That narrow peephole into the universe of the soul lost in darkness and trauma.

I could never speak a word of the day Scarlett died. I’ll likely take it to my grave, tucked deep in my pocket, forever a mystery to the rest of the world. She was too precious to me, and her death is a burden only I will live with.

And in Dessin’s heart, he is bound by the same fate. At least for now.

To pass the time, Dessin humors my curiosity. I wonder about everything, asking about the asylum, its history, the treatments, the reasons behind it all. And it turns out I couldn’t have asked anyone better about this. He knows everything. He’s only a couple years older than me, and I think he knows that history better than the people who were actually there.

The asylum was created by a handful of prejudiced, God-loving, narcissistic supremacists, his words, not mine—but I can’t say he’s far off.

They based mental disabilities off of religion. If a man wasn’t acting like himself, then he must be possessed by Satan. Of course, this idea brought with it quite a bit of experimenting; exorcisms and torture chambers. Scientists and priests believed that pain was the best way to beat someone into their old self.

He describes the hot water treatment as the most common. Scalding hot water was poured down a patient’s throat left to singe the stomach, resulting in festering stomach ulcers or imminent death. The patients were never treated but forced to live with the ailments caused by these vicious treatments. They would vomit blood until their hearts eventually stopped from exhaustion.

To my horror, that isn’t even the worst of it.

There was the hanging-toe treatment, where they were hung upside down by their toes for hours until they all dislocated. The blood would rush to their heads, and a pit of fire would lick at their skin until they were roasted like pigs on a spit. There was the acid bathing, pesticide consumption, the infamous shock therapy, aneurysm apparitions, and the genital dismemberment treatment, which is disturbingly self-explanatory.

“I want to show you something,” Dessin says, rising up to his feet.

We’ve been down in this tunnel for a few hours. I note that this time has been a gift for us. No one watching, listening, or judging; no time limitations.

We’ve been completely alone.

He walks in a determined line toward the weapons, separating the hanging knives and blades with the backs of his fingers, uncovering a hanging leather satchel. Instead of plucking it from the hook it rests on, he gives it a long, fixed look. Losing himself in its appearance as he coddles it in the palm of his hand as if the satchel was a beloved pet he thought perished, only to find alive and well years later.

“I’d like you to investigate the contents in this bag,” he says, collecting himself from his fallen moment. He turns his head to me, yet shadows fall across his face. “Tell me what they make you think of. Let’s call it—a guessing game.”

Ah, another game.

“How do I win?” I ask.

He chuckles softly, shaking his head as he returns to his seated position.

“Win?” he muses. “How do any of us win, really?”

I don’t follow.

“By guessing correctly.”

Okay. “Let’s play.” I wonder why anyone finds this man so terrifying. He likes to play games and occasionally tosses around a few orderlies like they are rag dolls.

Dessin opens the latch over the bag, flushing a quick whiff of dried tree sap. He holds out his hands, the satchel cupped in them like a small puddle of water. He bows his head once, signaling for me to put my hand into the dark pouch. My fingers reach inside hesitantly, avoiding the possibility of a sharp object. I seize a twiggy, lightweight object the size of my middle finger.

My concentration flickers to Dessin in confusion. It’s a stick. But he watches me curiously, as if waiting for a discovery, an epiphany of sorts.

I let my eyes fall back to the object, surveying its details. It isn’t just a stick. It’s a biblical cross. Two sticks are bound together by thin vines and dead leaves. I stroke it gently, understanding that any pressure will cause a snap.

“It’s a cross,” I tell him. Fun game.

But he’s still staring intently. “Look again.”

I sigh, holding the cross closer, letting it brighten under the wavering glow of the lantern. It’s a mousy-brown color, so old it’s nearly crunchy to the touch. I look back at him, raise my eyebrows, and shrug. “It’s an old cross.”

He smiles, but perhaps partially in annoyance.

“Clever,” he says. “Keep going.”

I reach my hand into the satchel and remove three more wooden trinkets. They’re not woodman’s work, clearly. They’re just sticks bound together by dead vines. But, as my nail outlines the shapes, I see a girl (in a triangle dress with dead leaves for hair), a boy, and an animal—a wolf.

I tell him my findings. I thought he was supposed to be a genius. This seems a bit rudimentary. He leans back against the wall with crossed arms, unimpressed, disappointed. Am I the unimpressive one here?!

“But what do you feel?” His look is barbed wire. I have no escape from this question. Obey or further disappoint. So, I give it all I have. What do I feel?

The cross alone, nothing. But all four tokens… Stirs, flutters, tickling the lining under my chest. An airiness, like the streams of sunlight after it rains. But then—without a hint of a warning, sadness. Sadness in its heaviest form, as if these four wooden figurines unscrewed the bottle of depression in my soul. I want to toss them back in the satchel. I don’t want to look at them again.

“Skylenna?”

“I don’t feel well, Dessin.” I set the sticks in the dirt. A bucket of nausea tips over in my stomach. I want to go home. I can’t vomit in front of him. I need a washroom.

“Finish the game,” he orders.

Anger flashes in my chest, jamming the swishing of bile back down my throat. “No,” I say between the safety of my teeth. “I want out.”

“Tell me what you feel!” he demands, chest expanding.

“No!” We’re on our feet now. “I am done!” I smack my hands against his chest, not taking even the slightest moment to realize who I’m hitting. His jaw flexes, anchors outward.

“Tell me!” He raises his voice, yet the power of his volume doesn’t frighten me. It fuels me with fight. “Now, Skylenna!”

But I can’t tell him. I want to stop thinking about what I just felt. I want it all to go away. Hide it in the leather purse and place it back where it belongs. I hate it! I’m ill. Let me lie down.

“Get me out of here!” I release my arms to push against his broad chest once more, but his hands hijack them in midair, just as he did to Martin, gripping them with a devil’s hold. An unnatural strength pumping from his firm arms.

Air rushes out of my lungs. The fight defusing from my limbs.

“Pain,” I whisper. “Heartbreak.”

The same nameless pit of feelings that plagued me when I went to live with Scarlett. I mourned for a year. I wallowed and shrank down to a speck of myself. I had almost forgotten what that once did to my body.

He holds my bound wrists to his chest, releases his breath in unison with mine.

“We can go now,” he says.