Page 53 of The Unraveling

The defeat must be clear on my face as Dr. Smith rises and says, “I can carry you to your room.”

I don’t care how pitiful it makes me seem. I nod and grab Isla’s leatherbound journal off her bedside table to keep a piece of her with me. Dr. Smith scoops me into his arms, and for a moment, it’s like how my father would pluck me out of bed when I was a little girl and had a nightmare. He’d take me to the living room to watch TV with him.

But Dr. Smith cannot rescue me from this nightmare, and there is no movie capable of distracting from how empty the house feels. He doesn’t even glance at the entertainment room as he passes by with me in his firm grip—like he’s worried about losing me, too.

Fresh tears blur my sight as he tucks me into bed. I notice the tiny droplets of Isla’s blood on my comforter.

“I’ll be right back,” he says as I tuck her journal beneath my pillow.

I run my fingers over the scarlet splotches, my breaths shuddering out of me. Dr. Smith returns after long minutes with the remnants of blood staining his lips and a glass of what I assume is his own blood in hand.

He sits on the edge of my bed and holds it out to me.

“Are you sure you want me as your patient?” I ask with a hollow voice as I stare into the rich liquid. “It must be hard enough to feel a patient’s illness through the bond, never mind grief like this.”

He banishes a single tear as it dashes down his cheek. “Your pain and grief can’t feel any worse than their deaths felt—than the rupture of their blood links. I doubt I’ll feel your pain below my own.”

I take the glass and bring it to my lips, tears dripping into it as I take a long swallow of his cold blood. It’s not as sweet as Isla’s, but it soothes my throat and chases away some of the aches coursing through my limbs, replacing them with a subduing comfort like the cold side of a pillow.

“Once the king’s men leave, tell me as soon as you’re ready to be turned,” he says. “Victor told me you’ve been scared, but Daisy, you’re on borrowed time now.”

I’ve had cold feet about turning, worried I’ll die during the transformation. I’ve felt unlucky—what with the cancer—and feared my misfortune could continue.

But now?

I’d rather get it over with. If it kills me, maybe I’ll be with Isla and Dr. Todd.

I rest the glass against my bottom lip. “I know,” I squeak. “Are you sure right after wouldn’t be too soon?”

He holds my gaze. “Daisy, the moment you’re ready, I will be, too. I couldn’t save them, so it would help me feel better if I can cure you.”

“Okay,” I breathe before drinking the rest of the blood. “Can I have some time to process alone?”

He obliges and stands to leave, giving me a frail smile through the crack in my door before saying, “I’ll check on you in a while, but call if you need me.”

I don’t use the time to process, though. I torture myself instead with nearly six months of pictures and videos from my disconnected cell phone.

I alternate between painful sobs and strangled, hollow laughs as I clutch my phone beneath the covers and scroll through videos for hours.

Isla rising from her bed like Nosferatu, then giggling and scrambling over to see what it looks like on video.

A photo of Dr. Todd lying in the middle of the study with a textbook cracked over his face.

The amateur boudoir shots I took of her as a birthday present for Dr. Todd, then one of me—just for fun—in her only set of white lingerie since her confidence was so contagious. That confidence died the moment I saw the photo of myself—I swear I looked ill—but seeing it now . . . Isla was right. I looked pretty.

As I watch the next video, I sob so hard I can barely breathe. Isla sits on the swing in the garden, her head tipped back as she takes in the stars. I zoom the camera in as far as I can without it going blurry to catch her glimmering eyes and successfully capture the twinkling, silver stars reflected there.

“Good evening, my little director,” she greets before giving me a red-lipped smile.

I don’t know if I’ll ever sound as happy as the carefree giggle that escapes me on the spinning video when she dashed off the swing to grip my waist and twirl me. I was so dizzy I nearly puked, and she couldn’t stop apologizing with extra sips from her wrist.

Videos of walks in the nearby forest. Isla impossibly high in a tree, her distant voice teasing, “Should I jump?”

Dr. Todd and Isla swaying to an old record in the backyard while I film from my bedroom above.

Dr. Todd lying on the study floor again, eyes closed while Isla pretends to wake on the floor next to him. When she feigns grief over him, my own sobs deafen the rest of her words before she reveals his dagger, lifting it above her chest to cry, “O happy dagger⁠—!”

“Isla, love, what are you doing?” he asks with a smirk as he cracks an eye open.