“There is no longer a choice. I am running out of time.”
His leg starts bouncing but he nods. “Tell me what to do.”
The extraction protocol requires controlled conditions. Dim lighting. Minimal sensory input. A focal point for the subject to anchor themselves when the memories become overwhelming.
I turn off the overhead lights, leaving only the lamp in the corner. The shadows soften the room, blur the edges. Elliot sits on the couch with his back against the armrest, legs pulled up, hands loose in his lap.
I sit facing him. Close enough to intervene if needed. Far enough that he doesn't feel trapped.
"The process works by guided association," I explain. "I'll ask you questions. You'll follow the thread of your answers. When the memories start to surface, don't fight them. Let them come."
"What if I can't control it? What if I go back and can't get out?"
"That's why I'm here." I hold up my hand, palm out. "If you start to dissociate, focus on my voice. If my voice isn't enough, focus on this. Count my fingers. Name the colors in the room. Ground yourself in the present."
He nods. His breathing is shallow, rapid. Fear response.
"We don't have to do this," I say. The words surprise me. I didn't plan to offer an exit.
"Yes, we do." He meets my eyes. "You said the alternative is worse. I believe you."
"Then let's begin." I lean forward slightly. "Close your eyes. Think about the last time you felt safe. Before Moore. Before the pens. The last time you remember feeling like nothing could hurt you."
His eyes close. His breathing slows.
"I was six," he says. "My mom made pancakes on a Sunday morning. The sun was coming through the kitchen window. She let me put extra syrup on them because it was my birthday."
"Hold that image. The kitchen. The sun. The syrup." I keep my voice low, steady. "Now let the image fade. Don't force it. Just let it go dark around the edges."
He's quiet. I watch the micro-expressions shift across his face. Memory. Loss. Grief.
"Good. Now I want you to think about Moore's house. Not the basement. Not the sessions. Just the house. The first time you saw it."
His jaw tightens. His hands curl into fists.
"It was big," he says. "White columns. Circular driveway. There were roses in the front garden. Red ones." A pause. "He liked red."
"What else do you remember? The layout. The rooms."
"There was a foyer. Marble floors. A staircase that curved up to the second floor. He took me up those stairs the first night. Made me count each step. Twenty-three."
I note the detail. Counting. A coping mechanism he developed early.
"What was on the second floor?"
"Bedrooms. A study. A locked door at the end of the hall that he said I wasn't allowed to open." His breathing hitches. "I opened it once. When he was gone."
"What was inside?"
Silence. His face has gone pale, the color draining like water from a cracked vessel.
"Files," he whispers. "Boxes of files. Pictures. Videos. He kept everything. Everyone he'd ever..." He stops. Swallows. "There were names. Dates. Amounts paid. It was like a ledger. Like he was keeping score."
I lean forward. This is what I need. This is what will keep him alive.
"Do you remember any of the names?"
His eyes snap open. The pupils are dilated, the whites visible around the edges. He's on the edge of a dissociative break, balanced between present and past.
