Page 93 of Borrowed Pain
"This is fascinating," I said, settling into the assessment chair. "You're essentially mapping trauma responses in real-time?"
"Precisely." Harrow attached what looked like a standard pulse monitor to my wrist. "We establish baseline autonomic responses, then observe how those patterns shift when we introduce therapeutic interventions."
The equipment hummed quietly around me, displaying standard biometric readings—heart rate, blood pressure, and galvanic skin response—elements of a routine physical exam.
"Tell me about your therapeutic philosophy," Harrow said, sounding like she was conducting a professional interview. "How do you conceptualize healing from complex trauma?"
I relaxed into the peer consultation. "I focus on creating a safe therapeutic space where clients can process at their own pace. Building trust, establishing coping mechanisms, and helping them reclaim agency over their healing process."
"And when traditional approaches fail? When clients remain stuck in trauma responses despite months or years of treatment?"
Professional guilt rose from my gut. "That's... that's the hardest part. Watching someone struggle with limited tools, knowing they're suffering but not knowing how to help them break through."
"Like Iris Delacroix?"
My breath caught. "Well, in a way, but she was making real progress before her—"
"Dr. McCabe, Iris was selected because you'd successfully helped her process her initial trauma. They chose her because your conventional treatment had prepared her for the next phase."
I gripped the arms of the chair. "They—who?"
"The network that corrupted my research protocols. Dr. McCabe, you were never a consultant in this process. You were always a subject."
I tried to stand, but dizziness hit me. "What—"
"Oh, let me explain. The assessment equipment has been delivering mild anxiolytics through dermal absorption."
A faint chill spread under the cuff, like alcohol evaporating off skin.
Harrow spoke with clinical detachment. "Nothing dangerous, only enough to reduce resistance to the evaluation process."
My vision blurred at the edges.
"The consultation is complete, Dr. McCabe. Now we begin the actual protocol."
Terror cut through my drug-induced haze. I was experiencing what had happened to Iris, David, and all the others.
"You can't do this." My voice sounded distant. "This isn't informed consent. This isn't ethical research."
Harrow spoke patiently with a condescending edge. "Dr. McCabe, you volunteered to understand how these techniques operate. This is how they work."
I wasn't a consultant. I was a test subject.
And just like Iris, I'd walked willingly into the trap.
Additional personnel entered the room, bustling around to attend to technical matters. The pharmaceutical fog made it feel like I was floating underwater.
"Dr. McCabe." Harrow pulled up a chair, positioning herself at the optimal therapeutic distance I'd learned in graduate school. "We've documented your approaches with seventeen clients over the past eight months. Your technique with Mrs. Kim was particularly instructive."
The words sent a chill through me. "That's impossible. Those sessions are confidential—"
"Tell me about the mountaintop visualization you developed with Iris Delacroix. Such a creative use of childhood safe space imagery. We've integrated similar techniques into our protocols."
A wave of nausea roiled my gut.
"You were listening. All this time, you were listening to my clients."
"Learning from you, Dr. McCabe. Your empathetic response patterns, de-escalation strategies, and your remarkable ability to create a sense of safety." She consulted a tablet. "Do you remember telling Mrs. Kim that healing happens at her own pace? That she could trust the therapeutic process?"
