Page 41 of The Edge Of Us

The comfort in his words almost breaks me again, but I hold it together. Just barely.

“Thank you,” I whisper, though it feels inadequate, like words can’t convey how much I need help. How much I’m falling apart.

Dr. Michaels turns to Dr. Bennett. “Let’s give her a minute. We’ll proceed with the therapy session after.”

I nod silently, still trying to catch my breath. The sound of their footsteps as they leave the room echoes in my mind, leaving me with only my thoughts again.

But now, at least, the storm has calmed. I don’t know how long it’ll last, but for now, it’s quiet.

And in the silence, I allow myself to breathe.

Chapter 25

Corine

I can still feel the ache in my chest from the night before. My body is sore-like my soul fought a war and barely survived. The silence in the hallway feels heavier than usual, like it knows where I'm going, what's about to happen. There's a stillness in the air that creeps under my skin.

I walk beside Dr. Bennett, my feet dragging. She's quiet, her expression unreadable, but I can feel her eyes flick to me every few seconds, checking if I'm okay. I'm not. But I don't say anything.

I just nod when she opens the heavy door.

The room is sterile. Cold. It smells like antiseptic and something else I can't name-something electric. There's a small bed with crisp white sheets, machines humming softly in the background, wires already coiled and waiting. The sight of it makes my stomach lurch.

I pause in the doorway, swallowing hard.

"Corinne," Dr. Bennett says gently. "You don't have to be afraid. I'm here. You're safe."

Safe.

I step inside.

Dr. Michaels is already there, in his white coat, adjusting something on the monitor. He turns and gives me a small smile. "Good morning, Corinne. Just take a seat. We'll go slow."

Slow. I wish they knew that everything inside me is already moving too fast.

I sit on the bed, my fingers trembling. The nurse-Jessica, I think-comes in next. Her face is soft, practiced. She's done this before. I lie back on the bed as she begins placing sticky nodes on my chest, my forehead, and temples. Each one cold. Each one grounding me in the terrifying reality of where I am.

Dr. Michaels moves to the side, the machine now softly beeping beside me. "We're going to administer brief, controlled pulses of electricity," he explains. "It's called unilateral ECT, and we'll only stimulate one side of your brain today. The goal is to relieve the severe symptoms you've been experiencing."

I nod numbly. "Will I remember this?"

Dr. Bennett steps in. "You'll be under anesthesia. You won't feel anything during the session. And we'll monitor everything-your heart, your oxygen, your brain activity."

My throat is dry. "How many sessions will I need?"

"We'll start with a short course," Dr. Michaels replies, calmly professional. "Six treatments. Twice a week. Then we'll reevaluate."

I don't say anything. I just lie there, letting them prep me like I'm a machine they're about to reset.

The nurse places a small oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. "Just breathe normally," she says. "We're going to administer a muscle relaxant and anesthesia now."

A sharp prick at the crook of my elbow. The IV.

Within seconds, my limbs feel heavy. My jaw slackens. The edges of the room begin to blur.

And just before everything fades to black, I see Dr. Bennett lean over and whisper something I barely hear.

"You're doing the brave thing, Corinne."

---