Page 5 of Writhe (Wellard Asylum)

S he’s right there.

I smell the scent of her soap waft past my nose as she twirls her dark hair around her finger that she’s already assaulted with her teeth. She bites her fingernails and something inside of me wonders if she could bite me.

Make it hurt.

Make me fucking bleed.

The Doctor, a man with wire-rimmed glasses who hasn’t ever said his name, and a voice that drags like a razor across my skin, clears his throat. “Let’s begin.”

I shift uncomfortably in my chair, hands pressed against my thighs, and I listen.

Not because I want to, but because I have no choice but to be in group therapy today.

Because it’s Thursday. Thursdays are for therapy.

A room full of people talking, dissecting, bleeding their thoughts out onto the floor in the hope that one day they will be deemed sane. Which will never happen.

Eliza’s lips are full, her eyes the color of old bruises, dark and hiding something beneath the surface. If I stare too long, I’ll start imagining what her skin feels like—what she tastes like. What she’d look like with my hands around her throat.

Not in a bad way, of course. Not really.

“The first thing we should talk about is James.” The Doctor says it like he’s asking for volunteers to go first, like this is some kind of class discussion instead of the reality we’ve been shoved into.

No one speaks at first. The fluorescent lights hum. Someone sniffles.

Then, finally, a girl with a mess of blonde hair clears her throat. “He’s better off, right? I mean, I’d rather be dead than stuck here.”

“He’s not dead,” a guy with hollowed-out cheeks mutters. His name is Daniel. I think. “They say he’s brain-dead.”

A few people shift in their chairs. I keep still.

Another girl frowns. “He’s still breathing. So, what does that even mean?”

“It means he’s stuck,” Eliza answers. “It means he’s dreaming the same damn dream over and over until someone pulls the plug—if he’s even lucky enough to have someone to do it.”

The room falls silent .

Because we all know the truth. Most of us don’t have someone—that’s why we’re here.

It’s not about getting better, it’s about disappearing.

We’re the unwanted, the broken things society doesn’t want to deal with.

If we had families, they wouldn’t have let the system send us here.

The Doctor clicks his pen. “And how does that make you feel, Eliza?”

Her jaw tightens. “Like you should go fuck yourself.”

A few people laugh, quick and nervous, like they’re waiting for the hammer to drop. It doesn’t take long. The orderly near the door moves fast, stepping toward her, reaching for the cuffs at his belt.

I hold my breath.

“Don’t.” The Doctor doesn’t look at the orderly, his attention is on Eliza. “You can share your feelings, Eliza, but you need to do it in a constructive way.”

She bares her teeth in something that might be a smile. “Oh? And how do you suggest I do that?”

“By telling us the truth.”

She leans forward. “The truth?”

“Yes.”

“The truth is, James is as good as dead. The truth is, if he had someone who actually gave a shit, he wouldn’t be stuck in a bed somewhere with his brain turned to mush.” She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Kind of like us.”

The Doctor smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “And you think you’re just like James?”

“I think I’m breathing,” she says. “For now. ”

No one speaks after that. The Doctor waits, like he’s hoping someone will, but the only sound is the faint hum of the lights and the rhythmic tap of Eliza’s fingernails against the arm of her chair.

We all let the silence stretch, waiting for someone to break it, but no one does. Everyone else is staring at their hands, their feet, anywhere but at Eliza. The air feels heavier now, thick with something that clings to the skin. It’s not grief. It’s not even fear. It’s recognition.

We all know we’re only one mistake away from ending up like James.

The Doctor clears his throat and leans forward, interlacing his fingers.

“We all process loss in different ways, but dwelling on what we cannot change only keeps us trapped in the past. James’s condition is unfortunate, but you are all still here—still present.

That means you have a choice in how you move forward. ”

No one answers him. I don’t think anyone believes him.

Eliza exhales sharply, a half-laugh, as she shifts again, her body restless, her fingers drumming against her thigh now. The sound is sharp and rhythmic. It reminds me of the beating against the cinderblock wall.

I close my eyes for a second and see red.

“You don’t actually believe that, do you?” she finally says. “That we have a choice.”

The Doctor adjusts his glasses, calm as ever. “You always have a choice, Eliza.”

“Right.” She tilts her head. “Like James had a choice? ”

The room tenses again. The Doctor watches her closely, measuring her, assessing. He probably thinks she’s just acting out, testing the limits of what she can get away with. But I see something else—something underneath.

She’s angry.

No, she’s furious.

But it’s not just at the doctor. At this place, these rules, the illusion of control they pretend we have.

I know that kind of anger. I live in it.

The Doctor taps his pen against his notepad, slow and deliberate. “You’re still holding onto something, Eliza.”

Her fingers tighten into fists.

“You lash out because you think it protects you. Because if you fight hard enough, maybe you won’t feel as powerless as you really are.”

“Fuck. You.”

It happens fast. She’s out of her chair before anyone can stop her, lunging, her fingers curled like claws, reaching for the doctor’s face.

But she doesn’t make it.

The orderly moves quicker, shoving her back, hard, her body slamming into the chair behind her. The sound echoes through the room, the scrape of metal against linoleum, the harsh gasp of breath knocked from her lungs.

“Restrain her,” the doctor says, his voice still calm, like he expected this.

I watch as the orderly pins her down, yanking her arms behind her back. She thrashes, snarling, her legs kicking wildly, but it doesn’t matter. He’s bigger. Stronger.

She’s trapped.

A needle appears in the doctor’s hand, the liquid inside it pale yellow.

“Don’t fight it,” he murmurs as he presses the tip against her arm. “It’ll only make it worse.”

I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I watch her struggle. It doesn’t last long—the drugs work fast. Her movements slow, her body sagging, her head lolling forward.

The orderly lets go and she slumps against the chair, her breathing heavy, uneven.

For the first time, she looks small.

The Doctor stands. “This session is over.”

He doesn’t wait for us to respond, he doesn’t need to. He knows we won’t.

The door opens, and one by one, we shuffle out, pretending we didn’t see any of it. Pretending we don’t care.

I linger, just for a second, my eyes on Eliza.

She’s still awake, barely, her head tilted to the side, her lips parted slightly. Her breathing is slow, shallow.

I wonder what she’s seeing.

What she’s dreaming about.

And for the first time, I wish I could ask.

THE DOCTOR

I slide Eliza Marlowe’s file across my desk, letting my fingers trace the edges before flipping it open.

The pages are thick, worn at the corners, and already filled with reports, evaluations, and disciplinary actions.

She’s been here three months, and yet she’s already accumulated more documentation than most patients do in three years.

A problem.

Or perhaps an opportunity.

I take my pen and begin to write.

Subject: Marlowe, Eliza

Date: [Redacted]

Session Observations:

Continued hostility toward authority figures

Repeat attempts at physical aggression

Strong resistance to therapeutic intervention

High cognitive function despite prolonged exposure to behavioral conditioning techniques

I pause, pressing the tip of the pen against the paper, considering.

She is unbroken.

Most who arrive here are already hollowed out. They come in shackles, eyes downcast, bodies weary from the weight of their own existence. They submit because submission is easier than fighting. Because they have been taught that resistance is futile.

Eliza is different.

She fights. She claws. She thinks.

And that is why she is perfect for treatment.

The mind is a fragile thing. Even the strongest will bend under the right conditions. A calculated mixture of pharmacological intervention and environmental conditioning will do what words cannot.

I turn to the next page in her file. Her medical chart. Dosages, prescriptions, adjustments. The current regimen is ineffective—too weak .

I reach for the phone, pressing the button that connects me to the medical ward.

“Adjust subject Marlowe’s prescription,” I say when the line clicks open. “Increase dosage of benzodiazepines by thirty percent. Supplement with a low-grade dissociative.”

There’s a pause. Then, a quiet, hesitant voice asks, “Doctor, won’t that risk?—”

“Do as I say.”

A beat. Then a reluctant, “Yes, sir.”

I place the receiver down, letting my fingers rest against the cool surface of the desk .

Control is a matter of perception. Patients believe they are making choices, but the reality is, I make them.

Their thoughts, their emotions, their resistance, it’s all malleable.

A careful adjustment here, a calculated removal of autonomy there, and soon enough, they will become what I need them to be.

Eliza Marlowe believes she is untouchable.

She is mistaken.

I close the file, smoothing my palm over the cover.

Tomorrow, she will wake up feeling different, the sharp edges of her defiance dulled, her thoughts slowed just enough that she will begin to question herself.

It won’t happen all at once. That would be too obvious, too cruel. No, this is a process. A slow, methodical unraveling of identity.

And when the time comes. when she is ready. I will guide her to the only conclusion that remains.

Compliance.

I glance at the clock. 11:53 p.m. Almost time for the night rounds. I stand, gathering the files, and placing them in the locked cabinet. I take one last look at my office before switching off the light.

Outside these walls, people believe in justice. In rehabilitation. They believe that places like this exist to heal.

I know better.

I am not here to heal them.

I am here to make them useful.

The halls are silent at this hour, save for the occasional flicker of a dying bulb or the distant echo of footsteps from an orderly making their rounds. The asylum breathes in the stillness—shallow, rhythmic, alive in its own way.

I walk with measured steps, clipboard in hand, my shoes tapping against the cold tile. Each step carries weight, not just in movement but in purpose. Every patient here is a study, a case, a work in progress.

I stop at the first door.

Patient #042 — Daniel Halloway

Paranoid schizophrenic with violent tendencies.

A chronic self-mutilator. The last incident left his arms covered in jagged lines, deep enough that an artery was nearly severed—a failure of supervision on the staff’s part.

He’s sedated now, his face slack against the dim glow of his night-light.

The restraints on his wrists ensure no more accidents.

I make a note.

Increase observation intervals. Reduce access to sharp objects, including removal of his fingernails.

I move on.

Patient #077— Madeline Caine

Delusional disorder with religious preoccupations. Former nurse, convicted of multiple counts of involuntary manslaughter. Administered her own “holy sacraments” to patients under her care—lethal doses of insulin, claimed she was “saving them” from their sins .

She’s awake, sitting cross-legged on her cot, whispering into her cupped hands. Prayers, most likely. Or confessions to a god who does not answer.

I observe for a moment, then, I jot down my assessment.

Continue lithium regimen. Increase sedatives at night—delusions are worsening.

The next door.

Patient #089 — Tyler Grayson

Sociopathic traits, history of arson, and no known family. He killed a man when he was fifteen—set fire to his house with him still inside. Barely spoke a word at trial. Barely speaks now.

When I glance through the small glass window, he’s sitting perfectly still, staring at the ceiling. His hands are folded in his lap. Controlled. Unreadable.

I make a note.

Monitor for signs of dissociation. Reinforce conditioning through isolation therapy.

Another step, another door.

Patient #131 — Eliza Marlowe

She’s not asleep.

She sits at the edge of her bed, back straight, arms folded, staring at the opposite wall. A defiant posture. A statement.

Her new dosage has not yet taken full effect .

That will change soon.

I watch her for a moment longer. There’s something almost admirable in her stubbornness, this refusal to break, even when she must know it’s inevitable.

But admiration is not the same as mercy.

I lift my clipboard and write.

Monitor response to medication adjustment. Increase one-on-one sessions. Ensure all staff remain alert—the subject is prone to unpredictability.

Then, without another glance, I move on.

By the end of my rounds, I have documented every relevant detail, every deviation from expected behavior, every necessary correction.

Tomorrow will bring new tests, new progress, new failures.

And, in time, they will all become exactly what I need them to be.