Page 7 of Writhe
But it’s not just at the doctor. At this place, these rules, the illusion of control they pretend we have.
I know that kind of anger. I live in it.
The Doctor taps his pen against his notepad, slow and deliberate. “You’re still holding onto something, Eliza.”
Her fingers tighten into fists.
“You lash out because you think it protects you. Because if you fight hard enough, maybe you won’t feel as powerless as you really are.”
“Fuck. You.”
It happens fast. She’s out of her chair before anyone can stop her, lunging, her fingers curled like claws, reaching for the doctor’s face.
But she doesn’t make it.
The orderly moves quicker, shoving her back, hard, her body slamming into the chair behind her. The sound echoes through the room, the scrape of metal against linoleum, the harsh gasp of breath knocked from her lungs.
“Restrain her,” the doctor says, his voice still calm, like he expected this.
I watch as the orderly pins her down, yanking herarms behind her back. She thrashes, snarling, her legs kicking wildly, but it doesn’t matter. He’s bigger. Stronger.
She’s trapped.
A needle appears in the doctor’s hand, the liquid inside it pale yellow.
“Don’t fight it,” he murmurs as he presses the tip against her arm. “It’ll only make it worse.”
I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I watch her struggle. It doesn’t last long—the drugs work fast. Her movements slow, her body sagging, her head lolling forward.
The orderly lets go and she slumps against the chair, her breathing heavy, uneven.
For the first time, she looks small.
The Doctor stands. “This session is over.”
He doesn’t wait for us to respond, he doesn’t need to. He knows we won’t.
The door opens, and one by one, we shuffle out, pretending we didn’t see any of it. Pretending we don’t care.
I linger, just for a second, my eyes on Eliza.
She’s still awake, barely, her head tilted to the side, her lips parted slightly. Her breathing is slow, shallow.
I wonder what she’s seeing.
What she’s dreaming about.
And for the first time, I wish I could ask.
THE DOCTOR
I slide Eliza Marlowe’s file across my desk, letting my fingers trace the edges before flipping it open. The pages are thick, worn at the corners, and already filled with reports, evaluations, and disciplinary actions. She’s been here three months, and yet she’s already accumulated more documentation than most patients do in three years.
A problem.
Or perhaps an opportunity.
I take my pen and begin to write.
