Page 87 of Unbound
I began to lose hope that rescue would come. Began to wonder if I'd made a mistake. If martyrdom was just another word for giving up.
But late at night, in the dark of my cell, I'd think of Anthony Whelan boarding that plane home. Nineteen years old and free because I'd made a choice.
Maybe that was enough. Maybe that had to be enough.
Because I was starting to understand that some people went into places like this and never came out. Not really. Not whole.
And I might be one of them.
17
JESSE
WEEK THREE
On the fifteenth day, they called me to something new. "Intensive correction session," the guard announced, like he was offering afternoon tea.
Different room this time. Smaller. No windows. Three staff members instead of the usual one, and equipment I hadn't seen before. More electrodes, bigger machines. The voltage meter went higher than anything they'd used on me yet.
"You're not progressing fast enough, Miller." Dr. Hendricks adjusted dials with clinical precision. "Time to escalate treatment."
I tried to tell myself Anthony Whelan was worth this. Tried to hold onto that truth as they strapped me down tighter than before. Electrodes on my temples, my chest, my wrists. More intimate places I won't name.
The session lasted four hours.
I lost consciousness twice. Each time they brought me back with smelling salts and ice water, then continued. Like I was a machine that had overheated and just needed cooling down.
When I finally woke up properly, I was in the medical wing. Restrained to a bed with leather cuffs, IV dripping something into my arm. A doctor was checking my pulse, frowning at his watch.
"Heart rate is concerning," he told someone outside my line of sight. "We may need to adjust protocol."
But they didn't adjust. The next day, they intensified.
That's when I understood. They didn't care if I survived this place. Maybe that was the point. Maybe breaking completely was the only way out - one way or another.
WEEK FOUR
I barely recognized myself in the bathroom mirror when they allowed me those precious seconds to see it. Eyes hollow, face gaunt, hands that wouldn't stop trembling. My cheekbones jutted out like knife edges.
Couldn't remember what day it was. Tuesday? Saturday? Time had become meaningless, marked only by the rhythm of abuse.
Worse: I couldn't remember Adrian's face clearly anymore. The details were fuzzing out like an old photograph left in sunlight. His smile, the exact shade of his eyes, the way his voice dropped when he said my name - all of it sliding away.
This terrified me more than the electroshock.
Maybe they were right. Maybe I'd imagined everything. MaybeAdrian never existed. Maybe the kiss was a delusion, a symptom of my sickness.
"I'm grateful for this chance to be fixed," I heard myself saying during confession sessions. The words came automatically now, muscle memory.
But did I mean them? I couldn't tell anymore. Couldn't distinguish between what I believed and what I'd been programmed to say.
Was that the same thing?
WEEK FIVE
I found myself staring at the ceiling fixture in my room. Same thoughts as my childhood bedroom, but sharper now. More urgent.
They'd confiscated my belt, but there were other ways. Window glass if I could break it. The toilet had hard edges. My own hands, if I had the courage.
