“ He ’ s an old friend of yours ,” he muttered . “ An old friend of mine , too .” I cocked my head . “ What do you mean ?” “ He ’ s the third personality .” I froze , eyes narrowed in suspicion . “ The Monkey King said that there were only two .” Sun Wukong ’ s gaze dropped to his folded , shaking hands in a silent warning .
*
Sunlight streamed in through the blinds , illuminating tumbling motes of dust and casting dappled shadows upon the patient ’ s latest work . I sat by the easel , fiddling with the worn silver chain of my necklace , and quivered at the gruesome depiction of the Monkey King in full battle armour .
“ We need to talk ,” I gritted out . “ You lied to me , Monkey King . You said there were only two personalities , when there are in fact three . Why did you say that ?”
Standing at the back of the cell , the hollows of his cheeks were sketched out in the dim light and shadows draped eerily over his features . “ Sorry ,” he said , shrugging with a practised carelessness . “ Ask me no questions and I ’ ll tell you no lies .”
My nails dug into my clammy palms . “ I want to meet the third personality - ” “ No ,” said the Monkey King , in a swift venomous tone that brooked no argument .
I wavered under his firm glare but went on . I had to help him recover , whether he wanted to or not . “ Listen , I can help you out of this sanatorium , but first I need to understand who he is …”
He shook his head violently . I trailed off , frowning at his ashen pallor . A sense of foreboding settled over me . I noted the way his hands trembled , and I began to tremble too . Who was the third personality and what had he done ?
“ We don ’ t talk about him ,” he growled finally . “ He ’ s the most delusional of all . You wouldn ’ t want to meet him .” He averted his gaze . I glanced back at the small , worn portrait propped up against the wall , and felt its silent , unblinking gaze on me .
I shuddered . *
“ Another Monkey King ?” I lifted my gaze to the plethora of portraits staring down at me from all four walls . At twilight , the room was bathed in a purple hue , and a faint summer zephyr stirred the scattered brushes by the window . “ How many will you make ?”
Sun Wukong stiffened in his seat , mouth frozen into an unnatural smile . “ This is the fortysecond .” “ Will you ever stop ?”
His eyes lingered upon the many portraits adorning his cell , his gaze heavy with an emotion I could not identify . Was it grief ? Anger ? The hairs on my neck stood up . People often said that the eyes were the windows to the soul ; but in that moment , Sun Wukong ’ s eyes were dark . They reflected no light ; they told no story .