Page 94 of Borrowed Pain
I saw Mrs. Kim's trembling hands in my memory. It was when she finally opened up about her assault. It hadn't been safe because it wasn't private.
"Traditional therapy failed them, Dr. McCabe—your traditional therapy. Mrs. Kim still experiences panic attacks. Your veteran client with Kandahar trauma still can't sleep through the night. Iris died rather than continue living with the memories you couldn't help her process."
Each accusation hit me like a punch to the solar plexus, targeting the impostor syndrome that had dogged me since graduate school.
"We can fix that," Harrow continued, her voice warm with false compassion. "We can show you successful techniques that create lasting change instead of temporary management."
My vision swam, but my fury slicked through the haze. "You destroyed them. You took people who were healing and broke them beyond repair."
"We showed them the truth about their treatment failures." Harrow's mask slipped slightly. "Just as we're showing you."
Two technicians flanked my chair—large men. One carried what looked like an IV kit.
"Additional pharmaceutical support," Harrow explained clinically. "To reduce resistance to the therapeutic process."
"No." Restraints immediately engaged with mechanical precision before I could move. Leather straps now secured my wrists and ankles. "I don't consent to this. I don't consent to any of this."
"Dr. McCabe, you volunteered to understand this entire process." Harrow nodded to the technicians, who began preparing an IV with practiced efficiency. "We don't coerce. We optimize. We remove resistance so the mind can be retrained."
Terror crashed over me. Iris's final phone call made horrific sense. The fear in her voice, desperate apologies, and the conviction that she'd made a terrible mistake.
She'd been where I was now.
A needle bit into my arm, introducing chemicals that made the room's edges blur like watercolors. Somewhere, beneath the assault of sedatives, my therapeutic training kicked in—an ingrained response.
Five things I can see.Harrow's silver pen. The institutional clock reads 2:34. A coffee stain on the technician's shirt. Thereflection of fluorescent lights in the window. My own visitor's badge is still clipped to my jacket.
Four things I can hear.The hum of ventilation systems. Harrow's measured breathing. The technician's radio crackling with security updates. My own heartbeat, too fast but still strong.
Three things I can feel.The restraints gripping my wrists. The pharmaceutical warmth spreading through my bloodstream. The solid weight of Dorian's GPS tracker, still strapped to my wrist.
"Dr. McCabe." Harrow's voice sounded like it came from the end of a tunnel. "Tell me about your professional failures. The clients you couldn't help. The techniques that didn't work."
My mouth moved without permission, words spilling out like confessions. "Iris. I should have seen the signs. Should have asked better questions. Should have—"
Stop.The command came from somewhere deep inside me.
"I am Dr. Miles McCabe." I spoke the words aloud, grounding myself in professional identity. "I am a licensed clinical psychologist. This is not legitimate treatment."
Harrow's eyebrows rose slightly. "The pharmaceutical intervention should be reducing verbal resistance by now."
"I specialize in trauma recovery." My voice grew stronger despite the chemicals clouding my system. "I recognize gaslighting, projection, and false therapeutic authority."
The mantra became a lifeline, professional knowledge anchoring me against their psychological assault. I'd spent years studying manipulation techniques, learning to spot them in abusive relationships my clients escaped. Now, I turned that expertise inward.
"Interesting." Harrow made notes on her tablet. "Dr. McCabe, your training is working against your own best interests."
"My training is keeping me sane." I stared at her, refusing to look away. "This is abuse."
One of the technicians spoke quietly into his radio: "Subject showing higher than expected resistance. Request additional pharmaceutical authorization."
Subject.Not colleague or client—subject. Like a laboratory animal being prepped for experimentation.
The room tilted as more chemicals entered my bloodstream, but my grip on reality held.I am Miles McCabe. I am in Room 314, Harborview Medical Center. My family knows where I am. Rowan will come looking for me.
Harrow spoke in a conversational tone. "Your partner, Mr. Ashcroft, led Dr. Rook to his death last night."
She was trying to shatter my psychological anchors, turn my love for Rowan into self-doubt. Classic manipulation—isolate the victim by poisoning their support systems.
