He flinched when Mrs. Knight turned his way with one of the younger children hanging off her hip and waved at him, as if nothing had happened. Choked up, he waved back only to stagger away from the window, speeding up past an old mural depicting Lucifer’s fall from the heavens. It was an odd choice of art for a Catholic children’s home, but the building still belonged to the Benson family, so it was their prerogative to keep any heirloom of the olden days—even the pyramid-shaped folly in the woods. Still, the silhouettes watching the dark angel’s descent into the fiery pit always triggered the memory of Gabriel’s childhood delusions, so he turned his eyes away and ran past it, longing for the safety of Dr. Rogers’ office.
He rapped on the wood as if his life depended on it, and burst in as soon as he heard the invitation.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he muttered.
Dr. Rogers lowered his glasses at the sight of him. Dressed in a tweed jacket and seated on a pale leather sofa, he looked like a quintessential Oxford professor—something he’d apparently aspired to be in the past. But Dr. Rogers had been a part of Gabriel’s life since the psychotic episode that had left him with fake memories of bloody rituals and torture. And he’d starred in them too. He’d been the one to blindfold and gag him, sometimes taking his air away completely, as the other demons took turns whipping him until he bled.
Unlike the other actors who featured in that distorted reality, Rogers had been a stranger until after Gabriel’s return from the hospital. But perhaps they’d seen each other in passing, since Rogers took on the medical care of St. Johns’ residents just before the nightmare started?
“That’s okay, Gabriel. Deep breath,” Rogers said, rising from the sofa positioned between long curtains falling on either side of the window like burgundy waterfalls. Out of all the rooms Gabriel had seen on the premises, Dr. Rogers’ was the most luxurious, and even Father John’s office paled in comparison to the rich wallpaper and massive fireplace surrounded with antique tiles.
Gabriel sat at the edge of the sofa as Dr. Rogers took his usual place behind a heavy mahogany desk, which didn’t feature a computer, due to St John’s policy of avoiding technology when it wasn’t necessary. “Something’s wrong with me,” he blurted out, in desperate need of help. Father John had told him he’d never leave the conservatorship set up for his own good if he didn’t get better. But what would have been the point of leaving if he were a danger to others out in the world?
There was a bull skull on the broad mantelpiece behind the doctor’s back, and when he lifted his head from the thick folder already spread out in front of him, his head aligned with its horns. A part of Gabriel believed that the placement of the item revealed some dark truth about the doctor, but Rogers had always been kind to him. He listened, asked questions, and did his best to keep Gabriel sane. The behavioral and cognitive challenges he sometimes made Gabe go through felt like mental torture, but the doctor’s goal was to heal the lingering delusions, not hurt his patient.
“I’m not sure what happened to me this morning. I think I didn’t take my pills, because when I searched for them later, I realized that I dropped them, but I’m not even sure if I left the room after that or not. And Father John said Mr. Watson didn’t come to work—” And my shirt smells of bleach and blood, and I’m freaking the fuck out. “May I smoke?”
Dr. Rogers always smelled of cigarettes and had been the one to offer Gabriel his first ever smoke, so it was odd to see him hesitate before nodding. “Help me understand. What do you think is the connection between your morning and Mr. Watson’s disappearance?” he asked and opened his gramophone. A few seconds later, soothing, classical music filled the air around them.
I may have murdered him over my childhood delusions.
“I don’t know… But I had these gory dreams in which I found him with his throat slit and face mangled by hot oil.” Gabriel sank farther into the sofa and pulled out a cigarette with trembling fingers.
Dr. Rogers’ thick, blond brows lowered, and he wrote something down in his notes before lighting a cigarette of his own, slowly swaying to the music. His eyes were focused on Gabriel, as if he’d been locked in one room with a cobra. “Interesting. You believe you have visions about current and future events?”
“I’m not sure. Is it possible for these visions to come back after missing just one dose of medication?” The first inhale of smoke eased his stress levels a bit, but as the familiar warmth filled him, he shivered at the memory of Abaddon grabbing his hand and taking away his cigarette. If he were here, would he have told Gabriel off?