The ointment the family doctor had applied to my wrists was thick, cool, and smelled faintly of eucalyptus and zinc. It was supposed to stop the stinging, but the skin beneath the white gauze still throbbed with a rhythmic, hot pulse that matched the beating of my heart.
The doctor,a quiet, silver-haired man who had arrived in the middle of the night without a single question about the zip ties or the bruising,had given me a mild sedative. It was a clean, clinical kind of peace that was supposed to make the edges of the world go soft. It made my limbs feel heavy, like they were made of damp clay, but it did nothing to quiet the noise in my head.
The noise was Derrick’s voice.
You’re experiencing Stockholm Syndrome with a high-end soundtrack.
I lay on my side in the center of the massiv
