I feel like I’m floating.
Then I realize I’m moving. I’m being pushed down a darkened hallway on a gurney. I try to sit up, but I can’t. And when I gaze down at my body, I notice three wide brown belts strapped across my chest. Oh no. Panic penetrates the walls of my stomach and I’ve seen someone strapped into a gurney just like this. Cynthia. Right before she was taken down to…
Oh no! They’re taking me to the basement! Or I might already be there.
Cackles trail down the narrow hall and as I look to my left, I notice cells with metal bars. Suzette’s arms hang through the bars and she’s repeatedly tapping her head against the metal. Against her cage. Her laughter, soft and eerie, with a sing-song ring to it. As I’m wheeled by her, she lifts a crooked finger and points at me. Fear latches onto my spine and refuses to let go. I swallow hard, but my throat is raw and dry from all of my previous screaming.
I’m wheeled down the hall further and several more cells come into view. Most are empty, but in the very last one Cynthia lies on her cot, in a burial like position, her eyes centered on the ceiling. “Cynthia,” I whisper and try getting her attention.
It doesn’t work.
Cynthia’s gone.
Another lost victim of the asylum and its screwed up methods of treatment.
The gurney slows when it comes to a set of swinging double doors. Whoever is pushing me, maneuvers the gurney around, entering the double doors with their back to it. They push me into a corner of the room, next to a machine with a whole bunch of different buttons, knobs, and climbing meters. I see a headband-like instrument and have to turn my head. Vomit inches its way up my throat and my lungs constrict. Electroshock therapy. They’re going to give me electroshock therapy!
I need to get out of here.
Twisting, I grind against the leather straps, trying to loosen them. The thick leather bites into my flesh and begins to burn lines into my skin. But I can’t give up. I refuse to give up. Still twisting and thrusting my hips upward, I try wiggling. I try moving my feet. It’s not working. Looking down, my eyes sweep over the length of my body again and I catch a glimpse of the restraints wound tightly around my heels. The restraints are chained to the gurney. Sobs leave my throat when the sudden reality hits me.
I can’t get out.
There is no escape.
Footsteps pound against the pale green, tile flooring and Dr. Morrow looms above me. “Well, hello there, Adelaide.” There’s a rotten tone to his voice and I know he’s purposely toying with me. He reaches to his left and grabs a giant wad of cotton off his tray. “I’m very excited to introduce you to what I like to call treatment.”
I’m crying so hard that I have to gasp for air and Dr. Morrow shoves the cotton into my mouth with force.” Don’t,” I try to say, but the words come out muffled.
Dr. Morrow points to my mouth. “That’s so you don’t bite down on your tongue, my dear.”
I’m still trying to beg him to stop, even though my mouth is full and I know he can’t understand me. “Plllease. Pleeassse.”
He ignores me, grabs the headband-like instrument and places it on me, the two nodules on each side pressing into my temples. I focus on the round, dome-shaped lighting fixture above me. I hear squeaking as Dr. Morrow fiddles with the electroshock machine’s dials. My saliva has dampened the wad of cotton and the little hairs are sticking to the walls of my cheeks. I have nothing left. Begging was my last option.
Dr. Morrow is going to fry my brain like an egg in a pan.
And there is nothing I can do to stop him.
“Let this be a lesson to you,” he whispers into my ear. “What goes around, comes around.”
So this isn’t only about treating me. It’s about payback. Revenge. All because I spit in his face?
Marjorie enters the room and takes her place next to, Dr. Morrow. She nods at Dr. Morrow and he reaches for one of the dials. My brain is already buzzing, setting itself up for the volts of electricity that are about to circulate t
hrough it. I clamp my teeth down on the cotton in preparation, and clench my fists. Then I try to tell myself that I’m ready for it, even though I know that’s a lie and I think I’m about to wet myself.
“Stop!” Dr. Watson’s voice booms inside the small operating-like room and Dr. Morrow’s hand freezes on the tip of the dial. Dr. Morrow ignores him and I think I hear the machine come to life. “God damn it, Matthew! I said stop!” I try to lift my head, but only make it part of the way. Dr. Watson stomps toward the table, his eyes sweeping over me in a panic. His gaze darkens when he looks at Dr. Morrow. “Let her up. Undo her restraints.”
Marjorie makes a move toward me and Dr. Morrow bars his arms against her chest. “No, Marjorie.”
Dr. Watson’s face is flushed, his brilliant eyes are fueled with rage, and he puffs out his chest before slamming his balled up fist onto the table next to the machine. He speaks with a gritty voice, lingering on each word. “I. Said. Let. Her. Up.”
Marjorie moves fast, removing the cotton from my mouth, removing the restraints from my ankles, and unfastening the ones across my chest.
“You’re making a huge mistake, Elijah,” Dr. Morrow scolds him. “You’re too close to this case! You need to back off!”
“I am in charge of her!” Dr. Watson fires back. “She is mi—!” Dr. Watson corrects himself. “She is my patient!”