Page 8 of Writhe
Subject: Marlowe, Eliza
Date: [Redacted]
Session Observations:
Continued hostility toward authority figures
Repeat attempts at physical aggression
Strong resistance to therapeutic intervention
High cognitive function despite prolonged exposure to behavioral conditioningtechniques
I pause, pressing the tip of the pen against the paper, considering.
She is unbroken.
Most who arrive here are already hollowed out. They come in shackles, eyes downcast, bodies weary from the weight of their own existence. They submit because submission is easier than fighting. Because they have been taught that resistance is futile.
Eliza is different.
She fights. She claws. Shethinks.
And that is why she is perfect for treatment.
The mind is a fragile thing. Even the strongest will bend under the right conditions. A calculated mixture of pharmacological intervention and environmental conditioning will do what words cannot.
I turn to the next page in her file. Her medical chart. Dosages, prescriptions, adjustments. The current regimen is ineffective—tooweak.
I reach for the phone, pressing the button that connects me to the medical ward.
“Adjust subject Marlowe’s prescription,” I say when the line clicks open. “Increase dosage of benzodiazepines by thirty percent. Supplement with a low-grade dissociative.”
There’s a pause. Then, a quiet, hesitant voice asks, “Doctor, won’t that risk?—”
“Do as I say.”
A beat. Then a reluctant, “Yes, sir.”
I place the receiver down, letting my fingers rest against the cool surface of the desk.
Control is a matter of perception. Patients believe they are making choices, but the reality is, I make them. Their thoughts, their emotions, their resistance, it’s all malleable. A careful adjustment here, a calculated removal of autonomy there, and soon enough, they will become what I need them to be.
Eliza Marlowe believes she is untouchable.
She is mistaken.
I close the file, smoothing my palm over the cover.
Tomorrow, she will wake up feeling different, the sharp edges of her defiance dulled, her thoughts slowed just enough that she will begin to question herself.
It won’t happen all at once. That would be too obvious, too cruel. No, this is a process. A slow, methodical unraveling of identity.
And when the time comes. when she is ready. I will guide her to the only conclusion that remains.
Compliance.
I glance at the clock. 11:53 p.m. Almost time for the night rounds. I stand, gathering the files, and placing them in the locked cabinet. I take one last look at my office before switching off the light.
