Page 7 of Heal Me

I nod. I don’t know if it’s supposed to be a reassurance or if it’s just information. It doesn’t matter. Right now, all I see is him and the comfort I find in the depths of his steady gaze.

***

Sometime after lunch the next day, Dorin comes to get me. I’m fidgeting and nervous as he walks me down the long, barren halls. I’ve never been in therapy, and the idea of dredging up all the hurt and grief that caused me to drag a knife across my wrists—and let it all out to a stranger—has my stomach churning.

“Can I at least get some clothes for this?” I can’t open up like that when naked and vulnerable. There’s no way.

“They’ll get in the way,” he says, repeating his vague answer from yesterday.

“What do you mean?” My voice goes up a pitch as he opens a door and herds me inside. What meets me in the room does nothing to alleviate the anxiety. Rather, it drives it through the roof. “What is this?” I squeal, backing up at the sight of a sort of exam table with restraints attached everywhere and stirrups where the lower half of the table is supposed to be.

“Get in,” he says, pointing to the scary-looking chair.

“No.” Hugging my arms around me, I back up another step. “You said therapy.”

“Yes, therapy.”

I shake my head, and my breaths go ragged as my back hits the wall.

“Electrotherapy,” he clarifies.

“No!” How could I have thought I was safe here? I’m so desperate for safety that I’ll take any resemblance of it I can get. But nothing in this world is safe. Yet, I keep grappling for it, because maybe—just maybe—this one time, I’ve gotten it all wrong.

“Are you at least gonna sedate me first?” I don’t know much about electrotherapy, but I do know that it has become a lot safer and more humane, and hope grows in me as I say the words.

Dorin smashes my hope as quickly as it came. “No.”

“What? No?” I push at him as he tries to grab my arm. “You can’t do this without sedation. It’s illegal. And you need a doctor for it. Will a doctor come?”

He grabs me under the arms, carries me flailing to the chair, and plops me into it. With a massive hand against my chest, he presses me down to half lie against the partially reclined seat. Wasting no time trying to calm me, he goes at the straps, pulling one over my chest and buckling it before moving on to draw one over my stomach. I throw my hands at the first one, fumbling at the buckle. With Dorin swatting my hands away, it takes a few tries, but I manage to open it and burst up to sit, grabbing the next strap.

With a grunt, Dorin snatches my wrist.

“Ah,” I cry at his terrifying grip that drains the strength from my arm, making my hand go slack. “You can’t do this,” I protest, shoving at his very big paws as he straps my hand to the side of the table.

“Why not?” he asks in an almost bored tone that scares me as much as his devastating strength.

The moment he releases my hand, I claw at the buckle to get it open, but before I can grab the strap, he has my other hand inan iron grip. I know I’ve lost as he leans over the table and forces my wrist into another strap, making me wince and whimper from the painful force.

“You can’t do this,” I repeat, defeat low lacing my voice. “It’s not legal.” At least, I don’t think it is. But psychiatric facilities are so underfunded and stigmatized in this country that I’m sure no one keeps track of what is going on in them. Especially not one as far away from civilization as this one must be. I have no idea where we are, but the village I was living in was as isolated as anything comes, and I have a hunch that Dorin hasn’t taken me far. At least not far enough to reach any place meaningful.

Defeat becomes a heavy burden on my chest, pressing down and squeezing my lungs as I tug at my restrained hands without achieving anything. Pressing my head back into the chair, I stare at the ceiling, wishing I had been a little stronger. Wishing I could have found the strength to cut deep enough.

Dorin is quiet and methodical as he straps me down.

“Please,” I implore in a weak voice as he lifts my feet into the stirrups. I have no idea why he needs my legs spread. All I can think is that this facility is far more corrupt than I could imagine. “Please don’t do this. I’m not schizophrenic. Or depressed. This won’t work on me.”

He ignores my begging as he straps my legs in tight and proceeds to do the same with my hips, effectively displaying my private parts. It’s not until he comes to stand by my head that I gain eye contact.

“You don’t need to do this,” I implore. “I’m already better. Just being here has helped. I’m not gonna take my own life.”

Stroking his calloused palm over my head, he says, as if it’s supposed to soothe me, “You don’t have a choice.”

Parting my lips, I shake my head as I try to find a response. But his words are so far out that there’s nothing I can say. Thisplace clearly works outside the bounds of reason, and nothing I say will change that.

“Now open your mouth.” He picks something up from a side table, then smooths his hand over my forehead. Defeat is a sharp cut to my pride as I obey. It’s the only thing I can do. Disobeying and having him force my mouth open would only cut even deeper.

He pushes a bite block between my teeth. A big one that fills out my mouth and forces it open. Then he uses roller gauze around my head and under my jaw to secure it in place.There’s nothing professional about this,is all I can think as he winds the white material around my head. It’s haphazard and makeshift. And it scares me to the bone.

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