The Doctor’s Secret
Dr. Sterling helped Iris to her feet. The cell felt smaller now, the walls closer, the air thicker. Iris’s head was pounding, her vision blurry at the edges. The white room had taken something from her — something she couldn’t name. But she had also taken something from it. She had taken back control.
“How do you feel?” the doctor asked.
“Like I’ve been hit by a truck.”
“That’s normal.”
“None of this is normal.”
Dr. Sterling smiled — a tired, knowing smile. “No. I suppose it’s not.”
Iris sat on the bench. Her legs were shaking. “You said you were one of them. A child of the basement. One of Victor Marsh’s victims.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about it.”
Dr. Sterling sat beside her. She was quiet for a long moment, her eyes fixed on the wall.
“I was six years old when they brought me to his facility. My parents had died in a fire. There was no one else to take me. The state sent me to Victor because he was cheap and no one asked questions.”
“What did he do to you?”
“He put me in a room with no light. No sound. No windows. No doors. He left me there for weeks. I don’t remember most of it. But I remember the voice.”
“The voice.”
“It started as a whisper. A scratching at the back of my mind. It told me I was alone. It told me no one was coming. It told me I was going to die.”
“But you didn’t die.”
“No. Because I made a bargain with the voice. I said, ‘Let me live, and you can stay.'”
Iris’s blood went cold. “You invited it in.”
“I invited it in. And it’s been with me ever since.”
Iris stared at her. “You still have the thing inside you?”
“Of course I do. You can’t kill it. You can’t exorcise it. You can only make peace with it.”
“How do you make peace with something that wants you to kill?”
Dr. Sterling pulled up her sleeve again. The scars on her forearm seemed to glow in the dim light.
“I give it other things. Pain. Suffering. Fear. Not mine — other people’s. I’m a psychiatrist. I spend my days listening to the darkest secrets of the human mind. The thing inside me feeds on that.”
“It feeds on trauma?”
“It feeds on despair. And I have an endless supply.”
Iris looked at the doctor’s face — her kind eyes, her gentle smile, her steady hands. “You’re using your patients.”
“I’m helping them. And I’m containing the thing inside me. It’s a balance.”
“What happens if you lose that balance?”
Dr. Sterling’s smile faded. “Then I become like you. I black out. I wake up with blood on my hands. I kill.”
Iris stood up. She paced the cell, her hands running through her hair.
“You’re telling me that the only way to control the thing inside me is to feed it other people’s pain?”
“I’m telling you that’s one way.”
“What are the other ways?”
Dr. Sterling stood up. She walked to the door of the cell and looked out into the hallway.
“You can fight it. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. You can refuse to let it take over. You can lock yourself away. You can starve it.”
“Starve it?”
“Don’t kill. Don’t hurt. Don’t feed it the violence it craves. Eventually, it will grow weak. It will go dormant. It will sleep.”
“How long?”
“Years. Decades. Maybe forever.”
“And if I fail?”
“Then you become the thing.”
Iris looked at her hands.
Clean.
For now.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
Dr. Sterling turned to face her.
“Because I’m living proof. I’ve been fighting the thing inside me for thirty years. It’s not easy. It’s not pretty. But it’s possible.”
“And the victims? The twelve people I killed?”
“They’re dead. You can’t bring them back. But you can honor them by not killing anyone else.”
Iris nodded slowly.
“What happens now?”
“Now you go to trial. The evidence against you is overwhelming. You’ll be convicted. You’ll go to prison.”
“And the thing inside me? What happens to it in prison?”
Dr. Sterling’s eyes were sad.
“Prison is a dark place. Violence is everywhere. The thing inside you will be stronger there, not weaker. You’ll have to fight harder than you’ve ever fought.”
“What if I can’t?”
Dr. Sterling reached out and took Iris’s hands.
“Then you find me. And I’ll help you.”
“How?”
The doctor reached into her pocket and pulled out a small card. It had a phone number on it, nothing else.
“Call me. Day or night. I’ll come.”
Iris took the card.
“Why are you helping me?”
Dr. Sterling smiled.
“Because I couldn’t save myself. But maybe I can save you.”
The door to the cell opened.
Detective Walsh stood in the hallway, her face pale, her eyes red.
“It’s time.”
Iris nodded. She slipped the card into her pocket.
“Thank you, Dr. Sterling.”
“Good luck, Iris.”
Iris walked out of the cell.
The hallway was long, cold, and lined with doors. Behind each door, she imagined a person — a victim, a witness, a judge. She imagined their eyes on her, their judgment, their fear.
She didn’t look back.
The courtroom was full.
Iris sat at the defense table, her hands folded in her lap. Her lawyer, a tired woman with kind eyes, had advised her not to speak. She had listened. She had nodded. But she had also made a decision.
When the judge asked her how she pleaded, she stood up.
“Your Honor, I am guilty.”
The courtroom erupted.
Her lawyer grabbed her arm. “Iris, what are you doing?”
“The truth,” Iris said. “I’m telling the truth.”