Page 17 of Writhe
I exhale, feigning reluctance. “Eliza is volatile—resistant to conventional therapy. If we cannot correct that through behavioral intervention, I will be forced to implement stronger methods. By myself, if necessary. I’d much rather avoid that.”
His jaw tensed.
Ah, there it is. The subtle flicker of protectiveness. He doesn’t even recognize it yet, but I do. He sees himself in her. A lost cause. A fractured mind.
He wants to help her.
Good.
He can help me instead.
I lean forward slightly. “I believe in you, Theodore. This is your opportunity to change. To become something more than what you are now.” I let my words settle before delivering the final push. “You want to be more, don’t you?”
His fingers twitch.
He swallows.
And then, slowly, he nods.
Theodore’s nod is small, hesitant, but it’s enough. Progress. A single step toward something greater—toward his purpose.
I allow a measured pause before closing his file. “Good. We will begin tomorrow. In the meantime, I want you to reflect on what we’ve discussed. Prepare yourself.”
“And if she refuses?”
“She won’t.”
I rise from my chair, signaling the end of our discussion. Theodore follows suit, his movements stiff, unsure. He keeps his gaze down as he shuffles toward the door, but before he steps through, I speak again.
“You are more capable than you think, Theodore,” I tell him. “You just need someone to show you how.”
He hesitates. Then, without another word, he slips out of the office, leaving behind only the faint scent of antiseptic.
Weaknesses.
I exhale, long and slow, before turning my attention to the clock on the wall. It’s past midnight—the asylumis quieter now. The hallways settled into their usual nocturnal stillness. A perfect time for progress.
Just as I reach for Eliza’s file again, there’s a knock at my office door. A sharp, two-beat rap, followed by the click of the handle.
“Doctor,” a voice drawls.
I look up to find Edwin Locke standing in the doorway, his thick frame filling the narrow space. He doesn’t bother waiting for permission before stepping inside. Typical. Locke has been with the facility for five years. Long enough to adopt its particular brand of detachment. He’s an efficient man, broad-shouldered and slightly hunched, his uniform crisp but stretched tight across his bulk. His nose is crooked from an old break, and a silver tooth glints when he speaks.
“Got another one waitin’ for you, Doc.” He rubs a large, scarred hand over his stubbled jaw. “Downstairs. Basement wing.”
I close Eliza’s file with a soft thump. “Who is it?”
“New guy. Arrived last week. Dunno his name. He’s a crier.” His lips curl slightly, almost amused. “Nurses tried to settle him, but he won’t shut up. Screamin’ about shadows in the walls, sayin’ they move when he sleeps.”
Interesting.
I smooth my hands over my desk, straightening a stack of papers. “Very well,” I say. “I’ll be down shortly.”
Locke gives a short nod, then turns on his heel, disappearing back into the dimly lit hall.
I take my time standing, collecting the necessary materials. A fresh notepad. A clean pen. A case of tranquilizers, just in case.
Some minds break easily.
