There is the darkest part of this episode.

Merissa took Cherie to Sayfe Infirmary, which was where the Healer and his apprentice were. The sign donned green twin snakes twisting around each other surrounded by echinaceas, roses, and jasmine. The words SAYFE INFIRMARY was arched above the twin snakes in loopy, purple lettering. Merissa shoved Cherie inside the apothecary and left him, saying, “Don’t come back home until you are cured.”

Cherie stepped inside, studying the shelves stocked with potions of different colors and sizes, stacked boxes placed in the corner of the room, tons of thick books lining the shelves and counters, and various china glasses, vases, and bowls scattered about the room. There were many herbal plants too, placed atop of tables and desks. Hell, there were even other plants that Cherie saw but didn’t recognize, like a spotted red, serrated leaf plant. Cherie couldn’t help but approach that plant, curious. He was about to poke it when a frantic voice cried out, “Don’t!” Cherie turned around and found himself looking at the Healer’s Apprentice.

“Why not?” Cherie asked as he glanced at the spotted red plant before turning to look at the young male with an inquisitive gaze.

“It’ll burst into flames if you touch it. It doesn’t like being poked!” The Healer’s Apprentice explained hastily, bronze eyes wide. He had his hands out, almost as if trying to drag Cherie away from the plant.

“It—what?” Cherie raised an eyebrow at the Healer’s Apprentice, amused. “It’ll…sorry, ‘burst into flames’?” He echoed after the younger male, perplexed.

The Healer’s Apprentice hissed, “Yes! It’s nearly impossible to put out, too, when it gets scared! Please leave it alone. If my master finds out the Hyl’s Maiden burst again, he’ll cane me!” He fastened his hand on Cherie’s wrist and pulled him away from the plant. “Now, why are you here?”

Cherie pried the Healer’s Apprentice’s hand off his wrist and he said calmly, “I’m here because my nana thinks I’m crazy. You got any potions to cure insanity?” He studied the Healer’s Apprentice’s appearance. The boy was scrawny, probably weighed hundred pounds at most for his slight height. His white, long-sleeve ruffle blouse hung loosely over his frame—the Healer’s Apprentice had to roll up his sleeves to his bicep to prevent them from falling down. His black high-waist Ouji pants clung to his waist beautifully; it made Cherie want to grab the boy.

“Depends on what kind of insanity,” the Healer’s Apprentice said as he went to the largest shelf, running his fingers over the spines of the books. “Moon madness? Seasonal madness? Lycanthropy? Hallucinations? Night terrors? Psychotic? Personality? Trauma? Mood?” the Healer’s Apprentice asked, tapping the books as he listed them off.

“Anything to stop self-harm?” Cherie asked casually, leaning against the shelf. He saw the younger male’s steps falter and he smiled to himself.

The Healer’s Apprentice stopped looking at the books and looked at Cherie with a strange expression. “Pardon?” He asked, head tilted to the side. His bronze eyes held bewildering concern, eyes doing a hasty up-and-down scan of Cherie’s body.

“Self-harm,” Cherie repeated. “Do you have any cure for that?” Cherie leaned forward and he could see the disquieted look on the Healer’s Apprentice’s face.

“Um…p-probably…” The Healer’s Apprentice stuttered. He cleared his throat and moved to the right side of the shelf. He tried reaching for the top shelf but couldn’t, so he stood on his toes, fingers grazing the edge.

Cherie found himself grabbing the Healer’s Apprentice’s slim waist and lifting him up, freaking the younger male out.

“H-hey! Put me down!” The Healer’s Apprentice protested, his cheeks flushing a pleasant rosy hue.

“But you’re so short,” Cherie said, still holding the younger male up, even lifting him higher up to reach the top shelf. “I’m trying to help you out.”

“Keep your god-awful hands off of my body!” The Healer’s Apprentice thrashed around, struggling to get away. “If my master finds out about this, he will certainly get mad!”

“But why?” Cherie asked, letting go of the squirming male, stepping back to give him some space. “He doesn’t own you. He merely mentors you. Right?”

The Healer’s Apprentice gave Cherie a hard look. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“Does he fuck you?” Cherie asked, and the Healer’s Apprentice’s face went scarlet and he shoved Cherie roughly.

“No! No, he doesn’t! I need to find you a chastity potion! You have your head in the gutters!” The Healer’s Apprentice snapped at him. “He is my master. He would never do such a thing. After all, my master is nearing thirty. I don’t think he would find any sort of interest in a boy like me. I just turned fifteen, you see.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are a strange one, Mr. Hodge.”

“Do not call me that,” Cherie growled at the younger male, voice stringent and glacial, startling him. “Mr. Hodge was my father. I am Cherie.”

“But it’s improper for me to address you as such—” The Healer’s Apprentice stammered, but Cherie cut him off stiffly:

“It’s Cherie. It’s always been Cherie and will forever be Cherie. If you call me ‘Mr. Hodge’, I will touch that Hyl’s Maiden and light this place on fire.” Cherie vowed darkly.

“You’re psychotic,” the Healer’s Apprentice said, aghast, his olive skin becoming ashy.

Cherie ignored the younger male’s comment and said dismissively, “So, is there a book you have to cure me?”

The Healer’s Apprentice gave off a disgruntled noise. He pulled a heavyset, prune-color book and set it down on the walnut wood table with a thud. He opened up the book, flipping through the pages before stopping at a section that read INSANIA.

“Tell me, Mr. Hod—sir, is it an impulse?” The Healer’s Apprentice wondered, glancing at Cherie.

“Yes and no. I do so impulsively, but within control.” Cherie told him. “I tend my wounds afterwards.”

“May I see said wounds?” The Healer’s Apprentice questioned hesitantly.

Cherie chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip before he gave in. He removed his pants and folded them carefully, setting them on the table. He sat on a chair and tilted left leg to the side to show his inner thigh which was lined with faint scars.

The Healer’s Apprentice’s eyebrows shot up in shock. Clearly he hadn’t expected to see evidence of the harm. The Healer’s Apprentice mumbled to himself, eyeing the scars before he went to a cabinet and opened it, withdrawing gloves, a small notepad, and fountain pen. He came back, wearing the gloves, and ordered, “Please have both of your legs spread open. I need to examine these scars carefully.”

Cherie obliged to the Healer’s Apprentice’s order, having his legs open, and he watched with rapt eyes as the Healer’s Apprentice ran his gloved hands over Cherie’s scars. Cherie remembered how he got each scar. He kept track. Like the one that the Healer’s Apprentice was touching, the one against his innermost left thigh. He had an identical one on his right side, too. He used his Wharncliffe knife to make a long slit against his flesh, mainly to punish himself for the near-“trysting” incident he had with the governor’s eldest son. The man was twenty-eight, and Cherie, then, was fifteen.

Despite the governor’s son being exiled from Il’amore for trying to enamor Cherie, the Father had blamed Cherie in the end.

It was because of Cherie’s iniquitous and unrighteous behavior. Cherie was the devil’s spawn and was no better than the governor’s son. In fact, the Father publicly shamed Cherie for his meddling with the governor’s son—he had taken him to the village’s center and whipped him.

“You are a living curse to Il’amore!” The Father had spat as he whipped Cherie. “You are bringing forth God’s Wrath unto us with your insolence! Have you not paid attention to the teachings of Moses, Saint Paul, and all those who fell between them?! ‘Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination’. ‘If a man also lies with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them’. ‘And likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust one towards another; men with men working that which is unseemingly, and receiving in themselves that recompence of their error which was met’. Don’t you know that Our Lord said ‘that He [Our God]...made them at the beginning made them male and female/And said, For this cause shall a man leave father and mother, and shall cleave to his wife: and they twain shall be one flesh’?! Only a man and a woman can bind together, as Adam and his wife, Eve, were the blessings of humankind. Are you a whoremonger?! Don’t you know ‘that no whoremonger, nor unclean person, nor covetous man, who is an idolater, hath any inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and of God’?!”

Cherie had barely processed what the Father had yelled at him, merely stunned dumb from the searing pain of the whip cracking against his bare spine. What made it worse was the fact that no one stood up for him. They all watched in silence, very loud silence, eyes dead, watchful, and so, so judging.

This is how I die, Cherie had told himself as he felt his consciousness slipping in and out.

He had woken up in his bed on his stomach. He had a heated towel on his back and some pills beside his bedside. The Healer was sitting on a rocking chair by Cherie’s foot, watching Cherie carefully. The Healer had a tired expression as he studied Cherie.

“You’re up?” The Healer had said softly as he stood up. His wintery gray eyes were exhausted behind his wire glasses. He had helped Cherie right himself up and he gave him the pills and a glass of water. “Here, this should soothe the pain at the very least.” He’d sat back down in the rocking chair, gaze thoughtful.

“Am I a curse?” Cherie couldn’t help but ask the Healer weakly, staring dully at the glass of water in his hands.

“That is not my place nor right to say,” the Healer had told him gently. “My duty is to heal, not criticize.”

“Did I deserve to be whipped?” Cherie had asked, voice shaking as he looked at the Healer, gaze beseeching and desperate, a deny, a confirmation—anything.

“Dearest Cherie,” the Healer had sighed, wintry gray eyes sad, “I… do not know. I…am only a Healer. The choice is the Father’s. He has the power and choice. He, afterall, has divine connections—”

“So, you’re saying I deserved it?” Cherie had angrily snapped, setting the glass of water down roughly on the bedside.

“I-I’m not saying you deserved it or not—” the Healer had stammered and Cherie stood up, pointing to his door.

“Out, get out.” Cherie had demanded.

“But Cherie, you need help—”

“Get out! Get out!” Cherie had raged, throwing the glass at the Healer.

The Healer had barely dodged the glass, eyes widening in shock, angry, and disbelief. “How dare you—” The Healer had spat, striding towards Cherie and grabbing his wrist roughly. “You’re a goddamn brat, that’s what. You’re a lost cause. People are trying to help you but you push them away. Either you behave or I will punish you for throwing that glass at me.” The Healer’s grip tightened on Cherie’s wrist and Cherie knew that his wrist would be bruised.

“You’re the same,” Cherie had said icily and the Healer gave him a strange look before letting him go. “What am I, the whipping boy? A scapegoat for everyone’s misfortunate? I did shit with the governor’s son. He’s the one who came onto me—”

“You must have convinced him,” the Healer had said softly, and Cherie felt something seized in his chest.

“W-what…?” Cherie had stared at the Healer with disbelieving eyes. He felt his chest heaving with an impending sob and he had shoved the Healer out of his room, ignoring the man’s protests. Once he got the Healer out of his room, he broke down crying. After he had managed to cease his sobs, he went to his dresser and withdrew his Wharncliffe knife. He dropped his pants, sat on his bed, and drew a line against his innermost thigh. He repeated on the right side and let the knife clatter to the floor, sobbing.

That was the first time Cherie found solace in cutting.