Page 103 of Borrowed Pain
The elevator doors sealed us into a vertical coffin. Digital numbers descended past ground level, past the basement parking garage, into sublevels that might as well have housed a morgue.
"Sublevel 2," the technician announced. "Medical isolation."
Gone were the warm colors and institutional artwork designed to comfort patients and families. Fluorescent strips painted everything in surgical white, and the air tasted of recycled nothing. Corridors stretched in straight lines, broken by doors marked only with numbers.
Room 237. Room 241. Room 245.
How many others had been wheeled down this hallway? How many trauma survivors had disappeared into numbered rooms while families received updates about promising therapeutic progress?
They transferred me into a space designed to mimic a therapy office, but it was wrong in ways that made my skin crawl. Two chairs sat at the optimal therapeutic distance, and neutral artwork decorated sterile walls. A box of tissues was within easy reach.
Harrow settled into the therapist's larger chair while technicians secured me in the client's position. "Perfect," she purred. "Now, Dr. McCabe, we begin the actual protocol."
The fog in my brain thickened as additional drugs entered my bloodstream through the IV port. Underneath it, I began to understand.
It wasn't random sadism. It was a systematic application of therapeutic knowledge turned inside out, designed to break rather than heal.
Harrow consulted her notes. "Let's start with your professional inadequacies, shall we?"
The drugs dulled the impact of her voice. The words triggered a conditioned calm, designed to mimic the outcome of a therapy session.
"Tell me about your grounding techniques." She leaned forward. "The ones you use when clients are overwhelmed."
My mouth moved without permission, professional knowledge spilling like water through a broken dam. "Five things you can see, four things you can hear, three things you can feel, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste."
"Excellent. Let's try that now." Her pen scratched against paper. "Five things you can see."
I blinked, vision swimming from the chemicals, and reported back what surrounded me. "The restraints on my wrists. Your clinical notepad. The tissue box positioned just out of reach. The camera mounted in the corner. The IV drip feeding sedatives into my bloodstream."
"Good. Four things you can hear."
"My heart beating too fast. The ventilation system recycling stale air. Your voice asking questions I shouldn't answer. The silence where my family's voices should be."
I'd lost all control. Sacred pieces of me spilled out of my mouth.
"Three things you can feel."
"Terror. Sedatives clouding my thoughts. The chair restraints cutting into my skin when I try to move."
"Two things you can smell."
"Industrial disinfectant. Your perfume—something expensive."
"One thing you can taste."
"Blood where I've bitten my tongue trying not to answer your questions."
Harrow smiled. "Beautiful work, Dr. McCabe. Do you feel grounded now?"
My skin crawled. She'd taken my most fundamental therapeutic tool and turned it into an instrument of psychological torture.
"That's not how it's supposed to work," I whispered.
"Isn't it? You've just demonstrated clear awareness of your current situation. Complete presence in this moment. Your technique worked precisely as designed."
"Let's explore your breathing exercises next." Her voice remained warm. "Show me how you help clients regulate their nervous systems."
"I don't want to—"
