“What are you doing to me?” I cry out, pulling at the bindings around me.
I’m distantly aware of the beeping growing faster, but I can’t figure out what it is except that I need to get out. I need to get these buckles off me.
“Undergoing a treatment plan,” Dr. Van der Merwe says simply like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. I’m in the medical wing, and it’s clear they have every intention of restraining me for whateverfucked-up procedure they have planned. What isn’t clear is thewhy?
“No, let me go.” My attempts at sounding strong are out the window. I can barely breathe, and I’m pretty sure the tears stinging my eyes have something to do with whatever they injected me with.
He sighs and folds his hands in front of a clipboard, highlighting the scrubs he’s wearing underneath his lab coat. “That decision is not up to me.”
“You’re a fucking doctor. I have the right to refuse medical treatment!”
This can’t be happening. I didn’t agree to any of this! They were meant to give me pills or get me to attend more therapy sessions, notthis—whatever this is.
Despite knowing it’s useless, I still pull at my restraints.
“Unfortunately, I cannot let you out, nor can I listen to your refusal of treatment.” Dr. Van der Merwe says with an air of disinterest as if this is all a waste of his time. He places the file on my legs, a silent mockery of my inability to kick it off me.
“Yes, you fucking can,” I growl, fighting back the tears that are so eager to spill. “I’m eighteen!”
“None of that matters, Miss Whitlock.” My heart shatters hearing what I know. I yank at the ties as he pulls out a bundle of paperwork from the file, holding it right in front of me. “Tell me what you see.”
I narrow my eyes to the scrawling swirls at the bottom of the paper. Bile rises up my throat as I choke out, “My signature.”
The shrink pulls the paper away and gives it a quick glance like he’s double-checking its contents. “That’s correct. I’m assuming you did not read the contents of the documents before waiving your rights to make decisions during your stay at Seraphic Hills.”
“Cut to the chase, old man.” Neither he nor the nurse writingaway in the clipboard react to the venom in my voice. Why be scared of the snake locked in a glass box?
He gives me a half smile like this is all friendly conversation and not at all like he’s explaining my death sentence to me. “Your appointed power of attorney has the right to make all decisions on your behalf concerning your health, welfare, and finances. In other words—in case that was too complicated for you—your grandfather requested an alternative course of treatment, and he believes that it is worth trialing.”
“Then I revoke my waiver. I’ll sign it right now.” Simple. We can end this right now.
My faux confidence doesn’t even fool me.
“That’s not how this works.”
Famous last words. If it were that easy, I wouldn’t be in this school. If I could dictate the terms of my life, I would have left a long time ago, not beg my grandfather for food and money just because he didn’t let me get a job.
From the corner of my eye, the nurse starts playing with one of the machines, causing it to flicker and beep. “Stop it.” I jerk against the restraints, slowly fighting off the pull of sleep. The line into my arm swings with the movement. “What are you doing?”
“Finally, Miss Whitlock,” Dr. Van der Merwe says with sickening excitement, “you’re asking the right questions. Do you know what ECT stands for? No? I didn’t think so. Electroconvulsive therapy.”
My heart claws up my throat, and I feel like I’m choking on it. I have no idea what that is, and I don’t think I want to know.
“It’s a delivery of a pulsed electric current to the brain to induce a seizure while you are under general anesthesia for therapeutic purposes. Despite the high levels of stigma, it’s proven highlyeffective in assisting some abnormalities in brain functionality.” He adds quietly, “Although it’s been years since I’ve delivered this treatment regimen, and technology has advanced since.”
I’m going to be sick. “You’re not going to knock me out. You’re not going to do any of that. I refuse.” None of this can be legal, right? Even if it isn’t, I can’t afford a lawyer—especially not one that would go up against my grandfather.
“That’s correct. We will not be administering anesthesia today even though it is an ethical requirement of the treatment.” He gives me a sickening half smile, causing all the color to disappear from my skin. “It’s an added expense that your grandfather does not want to finance, seeing as this is not covered under your insurance. However, your grandfather was kind enough to provide you with muscle relaxants.”
“Let me go, or I’ll report you to the medical board the second I’m out of here.” There’s no keeping the desperation out of my tone. It comes pouring out, fast and pathetic, as if my life depended on it.
“There’s another issue you have that is not included in any psychology manual.” He watches me hopelessly. “No one ever believes you—consider it a formal diagnosis, Miss Whitlock. Evidence is everything, and the evidence we have against you is… it’s damning, to say the least.”
“Get fucked, you disgusting piece of shit,” I spit, using every bit of power to stop the tears that want to fall. It’s the only minute shred of dignity I have left, and I’ll do anything I can to hold on to that useless power.
Any semblance of warmth falls from his face, replaced with cold calculation. “Insulting me will not change the outcome of the next hour. In fact, I would go as far as to say that it is in your best interestto convince me that you’re an exemplary vision of what is expected of a woman your age.” He takes the binder off my legs and pulls a stool from under the bed to sit on. “Do you know what ECT treats?”
“I don’t give a shit.Let me out of here!” I scream the last part as loud as I can. Surely, someone can hear me. A guard, maybe. Or a teacher. Maybe another student. But what’s the point? None of them will come to my rescue.
