He taps the needle with his finger, then whispers, “Think of me and maybe you’ll remember what we were.”

I nod, but shove all thoughts of him out of my head. Remembering him would be easier, I’m sure. But it won’t help with getting any answers. No, if I’m going to do this, I’m going to make it worth it. And that’s why, when he shoves the needle into my arm, all I hold in my mind is the bright red door.

Blood. Dripping from the walls, raining from the ceiling. I shield my head and my ears, trying to block out the screams.

“Help me.” The voice is cracked, pained, tortured. “Help me please.”

“Don’t be afraid,” Monarch says.

I open my eyes to the sound of his voice. He’s not there, but the blood has cleared away. The room is solid concrete, the only color the bright red door. Chains hang from the wall, savage and beaten. But no bodies are chained to them—not even mine.

I stand to my feet, tipsy and nauseous, clutching a little doll. I follow the sound of the help-me cries, one foot in front of the other, heading to the only place I can, a dark hall. The lights flicker with my footsteps.

“Help!” The voice begs. “Please.”

The voice leads me to door, not red, but rusted metal, scratched and dented. Even though I’m nervous, and my insides scream at me not to, I turn the doorknob. Something scurries to the side and I stop short, almost pulling back.

“No, please don’t go,” the voice says, tears laced in its tone. “Please don’t be afraid of me.”

I take a deep breath and step into the room. The lights blink, but in the corner I see a small figure.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice very real inside my head.

It shakes its head, its body balled into the darkness.

“I won’t hurt you.” I bend down slowly, trying to see who the small child is. The light brightens, vanishing all the shadows around. The little child lifts up its head, the flesh peeling away, teeth missing except for two sharp fangs. “Help me.” It reaches its fingerless hand for me, then pulls back, gnawing at its own arm.

I trip back, bumping my elbow on the corner of a metal tray, sending tools flying and scattering to the ground in an earth quaking noise. The child screams and I turn to run, but Monarch appears in the door.

“Kayla, what are you doing in here?” His grey eyes are troubled, his hands stained with guilt.

“I’m sorry,” my lips speak for me, words of the past. “I thought I heard …”

He grabs me by the arm and drags me into the hall, slamming the door and locking the child away.

“You can’t just wander around like this,” he says. “You know better.”