Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 2

other hand, understanding what the alternative would mean as well didn't settle with him either. There simply was no good answer for a situation like this. Not at all.
    He and Bobby stood back and gave the guard room. He unwound the steel wheel then flipped open the secondary locks. Sam heard a hiss and a squeal as the guard drew the heavy door open.
    Inside, Oberon awaited.
    "Enjoy your visit, Constable," the guard said as Sam and Bobby stepped through the iron doorway. The door squealed, and there was the solidness of a loud bang as the door sealed shut once more. For the next few hours no one would enter or leave this chamber. He glanced back at the thick glass and wire peephole. For now, it was covered. Then he turned back to face the dimly lit chamber, searching in the darkness.
    "Is that him, sir?" Bobby asked.
    Sam spotted the figure far across the room standing in shadow. "Yes, that's him– Dr. Ophelian." Sam took a step forward.
    CHAPTER 5
    In the flesh. Oberon wore an outdated but stylish paisley jacket. Beneath was what looked like a freshly laundered white shirt, dark silk vest, and matching heavyweight trousers. Sam noted the open shirt collar that exposed a vee of pale flesh, the lack of proper stiffened collar, no silk neck scarf, likely no proper cuffs either. Nor did Oberon fill the suit out quite as fully as he once did. A sad state of affairs, certainly, for a man like Oberon who had once prided himself on his manner of dress. Sam knew the outfit he wore was exactly the one he'd arrived in five years before. It was kept for special occasions. Such as this.
    Sam still couldn't discern Oberon's mood, his head being fully immersed inside a respirator. The head covering was old, dilapidated, mold green. Sam watched Oberon's chest rise and fall as he inhaled the drug-laced oxygen infused through the slender accordion-like tubes. The narcotic was used to balance Oberon's emotions and give his mood better equilibrium. If Sam had known five years ago what conditions Oberon would be imprisoned under, there were different choices he might have made. No man– not even an insane one– should be housed under these conditions.
    Sam noted a coiled copper wire that stretched from the back of the head gear to a ticking timer manacled around Oberon's wrist.
    "Wait here a moment, Bobby. I will assess his mood," Sam said in a quiet tone.
    He shrugged off his overcoat and tossed it over a chair, then crossed the vaulted windowless chamber, filled with tables and old scientific equipment resting on dusty, peeling tables. On one table sat a dusty microscope long past usefulness. The room was lit by candles: pillared ones on pedestals in the corners of the rooms, smaller ones on several of the tables that remained upright. Not one true lamp in the chamber. A single camp bed to the side made up in gray moth-eaten wool blankets; one small rectangular pillow encased in a dingy white pillow case. He glanced back at Oberon, still several feet away. He stood at the base of a short set of stairs leading to another thick, windowless iron door. Sam knew from past visits where it led. A chamber of horrors, where Oberon received his "therapy."
    Oberon held out his arms. He shrugged, as though he could read Sam's mind. Oberon knew exactly the predicament he survived in. And Sam knew the longer he stayed here the more insane he could become. There were no choices here, none at all. He had to get Oberon out. The timer went off with a jarring brrring . Round metal mechanisms at either side of the mask turned, unlocking it, fueled by batteries set into the timer. Oberon unbuckled the leather strap of the timer from around his wrist, then tore the head gear off and threw the appliance across the room. They smashed into the wall on the other side, crashed to the floor, springs and metal pieces flying in different directions.
    Sam came to a cautious halt, just staring at the man before him. His blond hair had been cut at odd angles, now damp with sweat, standing up in all directions. Oberon reached up somewhat self-consciously and tried to tamp it down to a more gentlemanly appearance. He quirked a lopsided grin. "I am a sight now, aren't I, darling? I could have wished to have appeared in better form for our conjugal."
    "Oberon—"
    Oberon lifted a hand. His demeanor turned dark, almost like a cornered animal. "We'll dwell on it no more. Not now." He brushed a hand down over the front of his trousers to the bulging prick pressed hard