Page 37 of Writhe
“My perfect little Dollface,” he murmurs, almost to himself. His lips graze my cheek, my jaw, like he’s committing me to memory. “No cracks. No fractures. I won’t let you break.” His arms wrap around me, pulling me into his warmth, into the only thing in this hell that makes me feel real.
But as I close my eyes—as I let him hold me—the doubt creeps in. Because Theo isn’t the one who decides if I break. The Doctor is.
The first sound is the click of the lock.
I jolt upright in bed, my heart slamming against my ribs. The room is dark, but I don’t need to see to know.
He’s come for me.
The air shifts as the door creaks open, and then they’re on me. Cold, calloused hands snatch at my arms, wrenching me off the cot before I can react. My legs buckle. I’m too weak to fight, too dizzy from hunger, from exhaustion, from the weight of everything inside me pressing down like a steel trap.
I don’t scream—they want me to scream. I bite down on my tongue, tasting copper, and let them drag me through the dimly lit halls.
The floor is freezing beneath my bare feet, the flickering fluorescent lights above making the world stutter in and out of reality. Shadows stretch like hungry hands along the walls. My body feels distant, like I’m floating somewhere outside of it, watching this play out from a different version of myself.
We pass the rec room, the cafeteria. I don’t know what time it is, but everything is silent. The hallway stretches longer than it should. Then we stop. The heavy door creaks open, and the smell of bleach and steel slithers up my nose, clinging to the back of my throat. The metal tub gleams under the harsh light. A shudder rolls through me, but the orderlies don’thesitate. They know I have nothing left to fight with. Their fingers clamp down on my wrists, my ankles. They lift me with no effort at all.
I brace.
Then.
The plunge.
She’s wasting away.
I watch the numbers drop in her chart, the sharp decline of her weight, the clear, measurable proof of her disobedience. She’s starving herself in an attempt to win some petty battle against me—as if I would ever allow her to have that kind of power. Foolish girl.
She still believes she owns herself. That is unacceptable.
I trace my fingers over her file, the inked evidence of every crack in her psyche. I have had many pets before her, women who came to me broken and left—no, not left, were remade—perfect. But Eliza . . . she’s different.
She’s stubborn, volatile, sharp where she should besoft. And yet, there’s something in her, something wild and beautiful beneath the filth of her defiance. She does not yet understand that I am her salvation.
But she will.
If she insists on destroying herself, I will teach her. I will show her that her body is no longer hers to ruin. I will break her down, strip away every last remnant of resistance, and when I put her back together, she will be perfect.
She will be mine.
I press the intercom button. “Bring her to the basement. We begin reconditioning immediately.”
I do not wait for an acknowledgment. I know it will be done.
A single-way mirror separates me from the scene unfolding before me. The room beyond is cold, clinical, a space designed for the breaking of fragile things. And Eliza . . . my dear, defiant Eliza has been so very fragile lately.
She stands in the center of the room, trembling but unbowed, her spine rigid, her chin lifted in that last, desperate show of defiance. Her ribs press sharply against the pale stretch of her skin, each shallow breath making them more pronounced. She’s ruining herself—starving, fighting, clawing for control in a world that has already decided she has none.
And yet, look at her.
Still standing. Still resisting. She’s exquisite.
The light catches on the faint bruises littering her arms and torso. Her body wears the history of her disobedience like a canvas, and it’s beautiful. But I can’t help but wonder how it will feel to see her covered in bruises that she begged for.
I do not love her for her defiance alone. No, it’s her resistance that calls to me. The way she fights against inevitability, against her own nature, against me. She does not yet understand that submission is not the end of her, but the beginning.
The orderlies do not speak as they work—this is routine for them. The one on the left, Frankie, raises a hand, flicking his fingers toward the metal tub at the center of the room. Eliza stiffens.
“Take your nightgown off,” he orders, his tone detached, disinterested. He’s done this too many times to care.
