Page 6 of Writhe
“He’s not dead,” a guy with hollowed-out cheeks mutters. His name is Daniel. I think. “They say he’s brain-dead.”
A few people shift in their chairs. I keep still.
Another girl frowns. “He’s still breathing. So, what does that even mean?”
“It means he’s stuck,” Eliza answers. “It means he’s dreaming the same damn dream over and over until someone pulls the plug—if he’s even lucky enough to have someone to do it.”
The room falls silent.
Because we all know the truth. Most of us don’t have someone—that’s why we’re here. It’s not about getting better, it’s about disappearing. We’re the unwanted, the broken things society doesn’t want to deal with. If we had families, they wouldn’t have let the system send us here. The Doctor clicks his pen. “And how does that make you feel, Eliza?”
Her jaw tightens. “Like you should go fuck yourself.”
A few people laugh, quick and nervous, like they’re waiting for the hammer to drop. It doesn’t take long. The orderly near the door moves fast, stepping toward her, reaching for the cuffs at his belt.
I hold my breath.
“Don’t.” The Doctor doesn’t look at the orderly, his attention is on Eliza. “You can share your feelings, Eliza, but you need to do it in a constructive way.”
She bares her teeth in something that might be a smile. “Oh? And how do you suggest I do that?”
“By telling us the truth.”
She leans forward. “The truth?”
“Yes.”
“The truth is, James is as good as dead. The truth is, if he had someone who actually gave a shit, he wouldn’t be stuck in a bed somewhere with his brain turned to mush.” She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Kind of like us.”
The Doctor smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “And you think you’re just like James?”
“I think I’m breathing,” she says. “For now.”
No one speaks after that. The Doctor waits, like he’s hoping someone will, but the only sound is the faint hum of the lights and the rhythmic tap of Eliza’s fingernails against the arm of her chair.
We all let the silence stretch, waiting for someone to break it, but no one does. Everyone else is staring at their hands, their feet, anywhere but at Eliza. The air feels heavier now, thick with something that clings to the skin. It’s not grief. It’s not even fear. It’s recognition.
We all know we’re only one mistake away from ending up like James.
The Doctor clears his throat and leans forward, interlacing his fingers. “We all process loss in different ways, but dwelling on what we cannot change only keeps us trapped in the past. James’s condition is unfortunate, but you are all still here—still present. That means you have a choice in how you move forward.”
No one answers him. I don’t think anyone believes him.
Eliza exhales sharply, a half-laugh, as she shifts again, her body restless, her fingers drumming against her thigh now. The sound is sharp and rhythmic. It reminds me of the beating against the cinderblock wall.
I close my eyes for a second and see red.
“You don’t actually believe that, do you?” she finally says. “That we have a choice.”
The Doctor adjusts his glasses, calm as ever. “You always have a choice, Eliza.”
“Right.” She tilts her head. “Like James had a choice?”
The room tenses again. The Doctor watches her closely, measuring her, assessing. He probably thinks she’s just acting out, testing the limits of what she can get away with. But I see something else—something underneath.
She’s angry.
No, she’s furious.
