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Being trapped on a lumpy mattress is not Malcolm’s idea of a good time.
Flashes of the consciousness offer enough clues for Malcolm to know what is happening to him. Repeated jabs with a needle delivering a dose of cocktails that render him immobile and asleep. Loose bindings on his wrists that are enough in his drug addled state to keep him stationary on his stomach. A prickling sensation on his back that flourishes in different places, and the incessant buzzing that accompanies it.
He’s been captured by The Artist.
A self-proclaimed vigilante who has declared that his work is a public service, shining a light on people with unsavory secrets. A man catfishing underage teens, an abusive partner and a predatory financial advisor had been abducted for days before being dumped in an abandoned lot with comprehensive tattoos outing their dubious activities for all the world to see. The drugs in his system prevent Malcolm from working himself up too much about what is happening, so he drifts for hours, maybe days. At one point The Artist allows the drugs to wear off just enough to assure Malcolm that he isn’t like the others he’s taken.
“My work is important, but after days of depicting such evil I’ve decided to use my tools for good. I’m going to make the world see the beauty in you. Just you wait, Malcolm.”
The words aren’t as comforting as they should be, and asking for his captor to see reason gets him nowhere. In the end he begs for a mirror, and he is denied. Wouldn’t want to ruin the “grand reveal” apparently.
Days later and Malcolm is too exhausted to care about much of anything. He’s been lying in his own filth for days, nothing but the odd sterilising wipes to keep him clean. The final stage was to finish the design on the backs of his arms, so the cot has an attachment added to it to force Malcolm’s arms out on a forty-five degree angle. The design has taken more out of The Artist than he anticipates, because after bandaging his arms they forget to restrain his arms again. Malcolm’s heart rate jumps at the realisation, but keeps his body limp and unresponsive to avoid drawing attention to himself. While waiting for his captor to leave he dozes off until the familiar companion that are his night terrors startle him from his slumber. His arm flails next to him and the shock of his arm reaching so high after being bound for days is enough to shake the cobwebs of his Claremont nightmare away.
With careful movements he pushes himself upright and feels the tug of the dressings plastered to the back of his body. The clear adhesive layer binding the gauze tightly to his body encases his entire arms, and try as he might, he can’t find the edge to unwrap it. They’ll have to stay on for now. Malcolm rolls off the cot and falls onto his hands and knees, staying frozen on all fours while he waits for the world to stop spinning. The lighting is dim and only reaches the edges of the furniture around him. The dark metal of the cot frame absorbs any light that scatters, in contrast to the pristine tattoo station. Malcolm turns his bandaged back away from it, not wanting to catch sight of the implements that have irrevocably changed his appearance. With the scant amount he can see there is no clothing spare to cover his upper body so he reaches down to wrap the familiar grey blanket from his bed around his shoulders.
Without a clock Malcolm has no sense of how much time has passed since he started stumbling around the room he’s been trapped in for days. Regardless of how long it’s been there is nothing that can stop his mind from screaming at him to flee as fast as his feet will carry him. Much like his father the thought won’t leave him alone until he fumbles his way to the door and tries the knob. To his shock the brass twists under his fingertips and the door flies open soundlessly into a large empty space with a glass door on the left hand side. Malcolm holds his breath, waiting for a shout or exclamation when he’s discovered. It never eventuates. Wobbly legs carry him to the next door whose deadbolt is not as forgiving as the first he encountered.
The woozy feeling in his head that never truly subsides in this prison causes Malcolm to rest on the exterior wall while he orders his thoughts. He casts his eyes around and finds the tool of his salvation- a hammer. With a steadying breath Malcolm hefts the tool, calling on all his axe throwing experience to gauge how much effort he’s going to need to break the window. In the end the ache in his head is too much to figure it out so he settles for old fashioned brute force. There isn’t a huge amount of strength behind his throw but it’s enough to shatter the glass for him to step through.
Malcolm stumbles into the dark street, scanning left and right for an immediate rescue but finding none. Streetlights cast spotlights on the path but reveal little else than bare concrete and the odd weed. The roads are devoid of cars, so Malcolm will have to walk to find help. He closes his eyes to focus on sounds around him which will help him choose a direction, ignoring the nausea in his stomach when the ground undulates beneath his feet. The prickly sound of tyres on asphalt murmur faintly to his right so he heads towards it.
The dressings underneath the blanket cling tightly to the skin on his back and arms, dragging his shoulders back in some twisted display of correct posture. His whole back throbs from the needle that pierced his skin over and over, marking him permanently. A small part of him is worried about the design that now adorns his body. Despite the irreverent nature of his captor’s assurances that he only enhanced Malcolm’s inner beauty, images of the previous victim’s tattoos with grotesque demons and cruel judgements of their character swim across his vision every time he closes his eyes.
The sound of rubber meeting the road is getting louder and it isn’t long before a main road pops into view. The third car he waves down slows down to help him and just like that his ordeal is over.
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Malcolm is sitting up in the hospital bed when Jessica and Gil are ushered into his private room. Between the pain on his back and the fragmented memories of being strapped on his front for days there is no way he wants to be anything resembling horizontal right now. The hospital gown covers the majority of his dressings, only a few inches of wrap peeks out from below his sleeves.
“Malcolm, darling, how are you?”
“I’m okay mother, all things considered.” Malcolm shifts his gaze to Gil. “Did you manage to find the place where I was held?”
“We’ve got Dani and JT searching business records in the area and assembling CCTV requests while the patrols scour the neighborhood. We’ll find it soon, I promise.”
Malcolm nods in understanding and drops his eyes down to his hands, unwilling to continue the conversation. Jessica and Gil share a worried glance, then she pulls herself together and straightens her spine, morphing into protective mode.
“Have the doctors looked at your back yet?”
A tentative shake of the head is her answer. “They didn’t want to start the process in the ER, they were concerned about privacy. The last victim had pictures taken during triage, and they don’t want a repeat. It’s fine, it’ll be fine.” The tone in his voice doesn’t portray the confidence in his words.
“Of course it will. And if it isn’t I’ll get you the best surgeons in the country to make it right.”
“He told me that he wanted everyone to see the beauty of my soul. He should have asked me if there was anything worth treasuring in the first place.”
“Oh, Malcolm. You are a treasure to me, now and forever.”
“Thank you, mother.”
The door to his room opens and Malcolm’s ER doctor strides in, accompanied by someone in a dress shirt with no tie and black slacks. A consultant, Malcolm assumes.
“Hello Malcolm, it’s nice to see you again. This is Doctor Yogarashmi, he’s our on-call dermatologist at the hospital. We want to remove your dressings and take a look under the bandages, see what we’re dealing with. We need to make sure there’s no infection, that sort of thing. Is that okay?”
The queasy look on Malcolm’s face reveals he is as far away from okay as you can possibly get. With a deep steadying breath, he drops his shoulders and steels himself for what is to come.
“I can’t put this off any longer, huh?”
“No.”
Doctor Yogarashmi steps up to Malcolm’s bed and reviews his notes while the ER doc turns to Jessica and Gil. “I’d like it if you could wait outside while we remove the dressings and make our initial assessment. When Malcolm is comfortable, I’ll call you back in.”
“Alright. We’ll be right outside Malcolm.”
They leave and the door closes behind them, shutting out the busy sounds of the hospital and amplifying the fear of anticipation in the room.
“We’ll start with your arms, then your back. All you need to do is sit as still as you can.”
Malcolm bobs his head nervously and stares straight ahead, unwilling to drop his eyes as the tattoos are revealed. He appreciates the doctor’s decision to leave his back for last, postpone reliving the helpless position he was trapped in for days until the last possible moment.
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“The good news is that there are no visible signs of infection in any of the injection lines. I’m told you are aware of what was tattooed on the other victims, and I can tell you that you haven’t been marked with anything similar.”
Relief crashes over Malcolm and dulls some of the panic coursing through his system. “So what is it instead?”
“Would you like to have a look?”
Malcolm puffs out a shaky breath. Seeing the evidence of a bodily violation of this magnitude is the last thing he wants to do. Viewing it with his own eyes will make this horror real, but there’s no possible way he can live in denial for the rest of his life.
“Let’s get this over with.”
Gingerly dropping off the bed Malcolm enters the bathroom under his own steam. A pale facsimile stares back at him with hollow eyes, his regular jour de vivre nowhere to be seen. For a split second he figures staring at his back has got to be better than staring his trauma in the face, and before he knows it he’s twisting around to examine the damage to his back. A sharp gasp punctures the air, shock freezing his ability to breathe.
He has wings. Malcolm Bright, serial killer’s son and profiler has wings. Feathers of all shapes and sizes trail from his hips up to his shoulder blades and out to his arms. The direction of the wings gives the illusion that he’s flying midair, the large primaries splayed out and away from his body. The detail is incredibly lifelike, and he gets the feeling if it hadn’t freed himself The Artist would have held him until he had coloured them all. Unlike the other victims there are no damning words inked on his back, just the wings.
They’re beautiful.
Malcolm was steeling himself for some kind of transformation, but nothing could have prepared him for this. He looks…amazing. What is he supposed to do now?
Dr Yogarashmi offers an answer.
“Once you’ve had a chance to recover from your ordeal we can discuss removal options, understanding that there will need to be an eight week wait before we can start any procedures to remove the art.” The doctor’s tone softens when he watches Malcolm’s eyes grow as round as saucers. “I know eight weeks sounds like a long time, but it will be here before you know it. I do need to warn you that a tattoo this significant will take months to remove, so please don’t expect to be rid of it in a single day.”
“I understand.” Malcolm doesn’t say any more, because he can’t admit to the consultant that the reason for his panic had nothing to do with hearing about the waiting period for removal and everything to do with the suggestion that his wings should be erased. There is no denying that kidnapping someone and inking them without their permission is the wrong thing to do, but when Malcolm imagines the tattoo in his mind’s eye he doesn’t feel revulsion. The profiler side of his personality knows that making a decision today would be rash, but he can’t deny that the emotions he’s feeling are nothing like what he expected.
How is he going to explain this to everyone in a way that doesn’t end up with him under a suspension or a psych hold?
Wrapped up in his thoughts the rest of the consultant’s words fade into a familiar hum as he bids the doctors goodnight and waits for his mother to return. The door doesn’t even have the chance to latch closed before it swings open again to admit Jessica and Gil. Worry lines are etched on Jessica’s face, but Gil manages to school his features a little better. Not enough to stop his jaw from ticking, but enough to calm Malcolm down some.
“What did they say?”
“That there’s no infection.”
There’s an awkward beat where Jessica waits for further details only to realize they aren’t coming. She shoots a glance at Gil and jerks her head towards Malcolm, waiting for him to take the lead.
“Uh, did you…I mean, did they tell you…”
“I’ve seen it, yes.”
“And?”
Words fail him so Malcolm jumps off the bed and faces the wall, revealing his exposed back. He’d been so distracted that he’d forgotten to put his gown back on. His mother’s gasp isn’t unexpected, but Gil’s is.
“So this is what my soul looks like.” A weak laugh dies in Malcolm’s throat and the resulting silence hangs in the air between them thick as a fog. Unable to stand it any longer Malcolm grabs the blanket from his bed and drapes it over his shoulders, shrouding his new self from reality. He falls onto the bed beside him and hunches over until someone else can say something.
“I don’t know what to say, darling.” Jessica’s tone was soft with no hint of revulsion or anger.
“Yeah, that just about sums it up. The doctors said it would be months before I can think about getting it removed.”
Malcolm can’t bear to look either of them in the eye, so Gil placing his hand on his blanketed shoulder is a surprise. “You don’t need to be thinking about that now, Malcolm. Why don’t you get some sleep while we focus on finding your kidnapper. I’ll come back tomorrow when you’re rested with an update, okay?”
“In all the years you’ve known me do you really think I’ll be sleeping any time soon?”
“Considering the cocktail of drugs that have been pouring through your system for the last few days, yeah I do. Maybe don’t try and fight it so hard this time, huh?” The jibe is one he’s heard before, but there’s no heat behind it.
“I’ll give it a shot.”
Jessica clasps her hand around Malcolm’s and rubs her thumb along the inside of his wrist, a rare display of motherly comfort that catches him off guard.
“We’ll help you get through this. Whatever you need.” After she lets go Jessica gently pries Gil’s hand off Malcolm and steers him towards the door.
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Nothing in Malcolm’s loft is out of place. The kitchen island is clear of any clutter bar his medications, the floor is spotless and ready for inspection. The order in his apartment is at complete odds with the maelstrom of emotions that he has been fighting to reconcile since he returned home from the hospital. For weeks he has vacillated between refusing to acknowledge the existence of his wings and covering the mirror in his bathroom to avoid looking at them and walking around half naked, unable to take his eyes off the intricate feathers inked into his skin.
Turning into a full-time recluse was an expected consequence. He ignores the calls from Claremont in spite of his father’s persistence. He’s been assured that he was given an update on his condition while he was in the hospital, and he isn’t really in the mood for the Spanish Inquisition from the family doctor.
Malcolm has only seen his mother, and that’s only because she has a copy of his current key. She pops in every few days, twittering about one drama or another and lamenting about the state of his fridge contents. It’s a script Malcolm is so familiar with he knows exactly when to answer without ever really listening.
Three weeks after he escapes brings news of his kidnapper. When the deadbolt twists Malcolm counts down from five to mark the familiar sound of stilettos hitting the floorboards, the ritual a comfort, a constant in his vastly smaller world. The echoey click never eventuates, and it’s enough to rouse Malcolm from his bed to investigate. In their place is the shuffling unsure footsteps of someone else. Just as his heart rate starts to pick up a familiar voice calls out somewhat timidly.
“Malcolm?”
Gil steps into view with his pea coat slung over his arm and a trademark knit turtleneck, the picture of confidence that Malcolm hasn’t recaptured yet. His face lights up in a smile when he locates Malcolm, but the warmth doesn’t reach Malcolm from his nest of blankets and pillows.
“You didn’t answer any of my texts yesterday and I figured you might be sick of hearing your mom’s voice all the time, so I thought I’d stop by. Is that okay?”
“You’re already here Gil, it’s not like I can say no.” Fingers claw at the sleeves of his thick hoodie, needing to check one more time that Gil can’t see anything. Today is one of those days where acknowledging what was done to him is too much.
“I won’t stay long, I promise. I came by because I have news on The Artist. Dani and JT arrested him while they were tracking down the cell tower users on the night you were found. He confessed to everything.”
The news lands with a thud. Malcolm doesn’t feel elation or relief, just another fact about the world that is heard and absorbed. A small nod of the head is all the evidence Gil gets that Malcolm even heard him in the first place.
“Look kid, I know that you’ve been having a rough time with what happened, so I’m gonna suggest you talk to someone about it. You also need to know that your tattoo doesn’t change what we think of you down at the precinct. Edrisa is hanging off the ceiling waiting for you to get back, something about a Killabustas quest she wants your opinion on.”
Gil’s mix up with Justice Quest elicits a huff of amusement from Malcolm.
“I’ll check out the JQ boards, see if there’s something obvious before I come in.”
Gil’s face brightens at his reply. “There’s the Malcolm I know. You don’t have to rush yourself back in, take all the time you need. Everyone knows you can’t remove the tattoo yet, so people won’t expect it to be gone. You’ll be wearing a suit, and nobody will see it. We won’t treat you any differently.”
Malcolm’s snort of derision cuts through the air like a knife. “You don’t know that, Gil. Everyone knows what happened to me, and I wasn’t exactly popular in the first place. The second I walk into the precinct they’re all going to stare.”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
“Yeah but this is different.”
“How?”
In his heart Malcolm doesn’t have a definitive answer. “I don’t know! Some days I love what was done to me, and some days I can’t stand to think about it. How can I face the precinct when I don’t have this figured out yet?”
Gil risks Malcolm’s ire and advances towards his bed. There’s no retaliation or rebuttal so Gil perches on the side of the bed and lays a hand on Malcolm’s forearm. He catches Malcolm’s gaze and holds it with a piercing sincerity. “You don’t have to have anything figured out. You have people that care about you and will support you with whatever you decide. Your tattoo doesn’t change your love for Twizzlers and subsisting on nothing but coffee at the precinct. And it certainly doesn’t impact your profiling skills. The needle went into your back, not your brain. If getting hit by a car didn’t stop you, I am absolutely sure this won’t.”
There’s a silence as Malcolm processes what Gil is telling him and he breaks it with a sigh. “You really know how to make a guy feel special.”
“Guys and girls, Malcolm.”
“Ugh, whatever you do with my mother is your own business.”
Gil’s hearty laugh resonates against the wood grain. “You’re absolutely right. Speaking of your mom, I have a lunch date that I can’t afford to miss. You call me if you wanna talk, okay?”
“Sure. I can do that.”
There’s no awkward loitering, within a minute Gil is out the door and down the stairs and Malcolm is alone with his thoughts again. He didn’t realise that he needed to hear Gil’s reassurance that badly, and now he has it his mind is more settled. By lunchtime Malcolm crawls out of bed and manages a shower and some miso soup.
A week passes and Malcolm’s mood evens out. When he catches a glimpse of his back in the bathroom he no longer cringes. All the swelling is gone and his skin has healed from the adhesive bandages, so as he goes about his day the physical reminders of his ordeal diminish when he has clothes on. A few days later and the cursory checks of his back turn into longer observations as details he dared not look at before come to life on his skin. The patterns of his primaries and the smooth lines of the feather vanes are so lifelike he finds himself reaching back to check whether the texture is any different. With each passing day the wings become a part of him, not something to be ashamed of. The thought of removing them leaves his mind entirely, and Malcolm’s not entirely sure when he decides that for himself. Once he realises it, he doesn’t waver.
His wings are here to stay.
The integration back into daily life is a rapid one once Malcolm knows his tattoo is staying. He suits up and handles brunch with Ainsley and his mother with ease, remaining non-committal while they discuss the pros and cons of laser tattoo removal around him.
When he decides to see his father for the first time Malcolm considers his wings as another layer of armor. Rolling his shoulders he almost imagines them unfurling behind him, ready to protect him from whatever Martin decides to throw his way. A familiar toothy smile greets him as the thick red door opens to his father’s cell.
“Malcolm, my boy! It’s been so long since you last came to see me, is your hair longer?”
“Probably, I’ve been busy.”
“Busy doing what? You haven’t called me about a case in weeks, and I’ve seen your team on the television enough to know that they have been solving murders. If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’ve been hiding.”
Malcolm grits his teeth at his father’s ability to hit the nail on the head. “Where I have been is none of your business.”
The friendly veneer drops instantly. “It most certainly is my business, you’re my son. You were abducted and changed forever. Your refusal to answer my calls is evidence that you’ve been affected deeply.”
“I make it a rule not to answer the phone from you if it’s a day ending in ‘Y’. I saw no reason for that to change.” Feeling an itch ripple across his back Malcolm steps towards the bookcases, determined to change the dynamic of the room. Martin turns to follow and his wings create a barrier between them, precious space that allows Malcolm to collect himself.
“Don’t be like this Malcolm, I can help you through this. I want to help you. The hospital wouldn’t disclose what you were tattooed with, but I can only imagine what the man could have done with the son of a serial killer as a subject.”
Malcolm spins around and flares his wings behind him. “What happened to me had nothing to do with you. For once in my life I wasn’t punished for my connection to you.”
Shock flashes across Martin’s face, the statement stinging as much as a slap to his narcissistic side. “I’m glad to hear that, Malcolm. This ordeal will all be over soon anyway, by my count you have four weeks left until you can start removing the ink?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, and his father latches onto the tell. “Don’t tell me you’re considering keeping them?!”
Cool eyes hold his father’s gaze. “What I do about my tattoos is of no concern to you.”
Martin is flabbergasted and aborts the first two attempts at sentences before the words come to him. “But my boy, they will be a permanent reminder of someone who bettered you! You didn’t have a choice!”
“A reminder can be something other than a tattoo. And you’re right, I didn’t have a choice about what was done to me. But I’m choosing how I deal with this. And to me, what is on my back is a reminder of what I have endured. What I can survive. I will take what has been given and make it my own, and there is nothing you can do about it.”
“Now listen here, you’re not thinking clearly. You can’t go through the rest of your life with…with…” Martin searches for a diplomatic statement but gives up in frustration. “You have to tell me what he did to you. What did he mark you with?”
Malcolm grins and puffs his chest out, his wings rippling underneath his white dress shirt. “It’s killing you not knowing, isn’t it? Well, you’ll be happy to hear that I have no intention of telling you what I carry with me, ever. There’s no reason for you to know.”
“I deserve to know everything about you, my boy,” Martin snarls, “now tell me!”
As his father gets more agitated Malcolm makes his way back to the door and knocks loudly. “All I will tell you is that I have healed, so there’s no need for you to worry.”
“This isn’t over Malcolm, you will tell me eventually!”
Mr David swings the door open with one hand and holds a tray in the other. “No I won’t. Enjoy your dinner, Doctor Whitly.”
The bellowing behind him doesn’t let up until the door is sealed shut, but Malcolm tunes it out. He holds his head high, confidence brimming with every step. The hand that normally grips the hidden stress ball in his coat is oddly still. It may be entirely in his head, but today his wings were his secret weapon, and Malcolm feels stronger for it.
When he woke up in the hospital Malcolm treated his injury as though it fundamentally changed the fabric of his identity for the worse. Now, with time under his belt his perception is markedly different.
What started out as a curse has turned into a blessing, and Malcolm wouldn’t change it for the world.