Page 55 of Writhe
I thrash.
I scream.
“Theo!”
My voice breaks, shatters into something raw and desperate. I twist in their grasp, kicking out,clawing at them. My nails sink into flesh, tearing, and someone curses under their breath. Their grip only tightens.
“Hold her,” a voice commands.
The Doctor.
Dread slams through me, paralyzing, freezing the breath in my lungs.
No. No, no, no.
I jerk violently, but it’s useless. Arms lock around my waist, a human vise, while another secures my wrists, crushing them in his grasp like steel restraints.
I shake my head frantically, breath hitching as I try to twist away, but I can feel him stepping closer. The scent of whiskey and cologne creeps into my senses, suffocating.
Then. Fingers.
Soft, sickeningly gentle, brushing the damp strands of hair from my face.
“Shh, little one.” The Doctor’s voice slides over my skin. “It’s all right now.”
A sound rips from my throat, something between a sob and a snarl.
“Where is he?” I gasp, my chest heaving, my voice cracking on the name. “Where is Theo?”
The Doctor exhales slowly, like a patient father indulging a child’s tantrum. I don’t realize I’m shaking until his fingers curl under my chin, lifting my face. I freeze. His touch is deceptively warm, steady, and firm. But it offers no comfort. Only control. My breath stutters as I meet his gaze. Cold. Knowing.
Shaking my head, my breath comes in sharp, frantic gasps. “No—” I whisper, more to myself than to him.
His lips curve, but it’s not a smile. It’s something worse. His thumb brushes over my bottom lip. A mockery of tenderness. Then, softly, he says:
“He was never here.”
DOCTOR
I lower myself into my chair, settling her into my lap like a doll that has lost its strings. She doesn’t fight. Her head lolls against my chest, her breathing shallow, and I hum with quiet approval, stroking my fingers through the damp tangles of her hair. She’s pliant now, broken open just enough for me to fit my hands inside and reshape her.
I have been waiting for this.
Her hands twitch against the fabric of my vest, a useless attempt to hold herself together. The soft, distressed noises slipping from her throat are like music—tiny, ruined things, so quiet they could be mistaken for breath. I hush her, fingers tracing the curve of her cheek, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple.
“Shh, little one.”
She shivers.
Her mind is still unraveling, the truth tighteningaround her like a noose. She is trying to deny it. I can feel it in the tremor of her limbs, the shallow hitch of her breath against my throat.
I let the silence stretch, my grip tightening ever so slightly around her waist, reminding her that she is caged, that there is nowhere to run.
Finally, she finds her voice. “Where’s Theo?” It’s broken.
I sigh, my fingers pressing against the edge of her jaw as I tilt her face upward, forcing her to look at me. Her lips are swollen from biting them raw, her pupils too wide, the last traces of her fantasy clinging to her expression like cobwebs.
“I’ve already told you.” Her breath catches. She doesn’t answer. I smooth my thumb over her bottom lip, silencing whatever weak protest might be forming there. “He was never real.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I feel the violent crack in her reality.
