Page 7 of Writhe (Wellard Asylum)

T he Doctor calls it progressive therapy.

I call it bullshit.

He stands in front of Theo and me, hands clasped behind his back, posture as rigid as the starched white coat he wears like armor.

His office smells like disinfectants and the faintest hint of coffee.

The walls are lined with books—thick medical texts and psychiatric journals stacked neatly on the shelves, untouched.

There’s a single chair in front of his desk, the kind designed to make you uncomfortable.

To keep you from getting too relaxed. I’ve sat in it before.

Not today.

Today, I stand with my back straight, my fingers curled into fists at my sides, because sitting would be a concession. And I don’t concede.

Not willingly.

Theo is beside me, shifting from foot to foot, eyes flicking between me and the doctor. He looks pale, but then again, he always does—sickly in a way that makes my stomach twist, though I refuse to acknowledge why.

The Doctor clears his throat, adjusting his glasses as he observes us like we’re specimens under a microscope. “You lack trust, Eliza.”

I don’t answer. He doesn’t expect me to.

“You believe everyone in this facility is against you. You refuse to engage in productive discourse. You reject help when it is offered.”

Still, I say nothing.

He tilts his head slightly. “Do you disagree?”

“I don’t believe help exists here.”

There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. Gone before I can blink.

He shifts his attention to Theo. “I see.” A muscle ticks in my jaw and the doctor hums. “We all want the same thing. For you to get better.”

I glare. “You don’t want me to get better. You want me to break.”

He ignores me. “As I said, your inability to trust is an obstacle to your recovery. So, we are going to remove that obstacle.” I don’t like the way he says we . I don’t like any of this. He gestures toward Theo. “Mr. Graves has been selected to be your partner in this exercise. ”

I glance at Theo. He looks just as confused as I feel. He’s not as timid as I remember him, or maybe it’s because it’s morning and his meds are working in full force.

“What kind of exercise?” I ask.

“A simple trust exercise.” The Doctor clasps his hands in front of him. “Mr. Graves will stand behind you. You will close your eyes and fall backward. He will catch you.”

I stare at him. “You’re joking.”

“I assure you; I am not.”

I bark out a short, humorless laugh. “You want me to trust someone I met yesterday to catch me?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

The Doctor sighs like I’m being difficult. Like I’m the one who’s being unreasonable. “Eliza, I need your cooperation.”

“You’re not getting it.”

His smile is patient. His eyes are not. “We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way.”

I grit my teeth. “You don’t scare me.”

That’s a lie, but I’ll die before I let him see it.

I don’t have time to react before a fist slams into my stomach—the doctor’s fist. The air whooshes out of my lungs.

My knees buckle. I hit the floor hard, my hands slamming against the cold tile as I gasp, choking on nothing.

A boot presses between my shoulder blades, forcing me down, my cheek pressed against the floor .

Then the weight disappears. I roll onto my side, coughing, arms wrapped around my midsection. Theo is pale, eyes wide with horror. “You—” He looks at the doctor, then at me. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“On the contrary,” the doctor says smoothly, adjusting his cuffs. “I believe I did.”

I drag in a breath, lifting myself onto my elbows. “Fuck. You.”

The Doctor sighs again. “Put her in position.”

Hands grab me. I thrash, but I’m weak from the blow, my body still struggling to catch up. The orderlies drag me to my feet, forcing my arms behind me, making me stand rigid and unsteady.

Theo steps back as they shove me into a place in front of him. I hear his breathing. Shallow. Uneven.

The Doctor gestures. “Again.” I keep my feet planted. Another blow lands. This time for my ribs. I bite back the sound that wants to escape, my head swimming. “Again,” the doctor repeats.

Theo looks at me, frantic expression, pleading. “Just . . . Just do it, Eliza.”

My chest rises and falls. I don’t want to give in, but I don’t have a choice.

So, I close my eyes, and I let go. Theo’s arms catch me, trembling and too thin, but solid.

I feel the quick pulse of his heartbeat through his shirt, the shallow hitch of his breath against my ear.

I press my hands against his chest, shoving myself away. I don’t look at him.

The Doctor smiles, pleased. “See? That wasn’t so hard.” I want to claw his eyes out. “Tomorrow, we’ll move on to something more challenging.” He nods at the orderlies. “Take her back to her room.”

THE DOCTOR

Patient Files: Eliza Marlowe their dynamic is already evident. Eliza is all sharp edges and resistance, and Theodore is meek, easily swayed. She thrives in defiance; he crumbles under pressure. A natural oppositional balance. The perfect conditions for control—for submission.

For reformation.

I close their files and fold my hands over my desk, watching the boy seated across from me.

Theodore Graves shifts in his chair, spine slightly hunched, eyes flickering between the door and his lap.

Always anxious. Always uncomfortable. Always running from something.

It’s time to stop running. He needs structure.

Direction. Purpose. I will give it to him.

“You performed well today, Theodore,” I begin, keeping my voice even, measured. “Catching Eliza was a crucial step in establishing trust. You did as instructed. ”

His throat bobs as he swallows. “She didn’t want to do it.”

“Of course she didn’t.” I lean back in my chair, studying him. “Resistance is part of the process. It is a defense mechanism. You, however, succeeded where others have failed.”

He hesitates. “I don’t think she trusts me.”

“She doesn’t need to,” I correct him. “Not yet. Trust is cultivated through discipline and exposure. Which is why I’ve selected you to assist me in a new form of treatment.”

He blinks. “Treatment?”

“A method I’ve been developing for some time. It focuses on control—submission. Rebuilding the mind by reconstructing behavioral patterns.”

“I don’t understand.”

I tap a finger against his file. “You and Eliza. You represent two opposing forces. She is unrelenting, obstinate, and reckless. You are . . . restrained. Passive. You yield too easily.” I pause, letting the words settle. “Your patterns can be altered. Strengthened.”

“I—I don’t think I’m the right person for this.”

“You are precisely the right person.”

“I just. I don’t know if I can . . .” He rubs his hands together, fingers knotting nervously. “She’s—She’s different. She doesn’t listen.”

“She will.”

He exhales, shaking his head. “What exactly would I have to do?”

“You will learn to take control. ”

His gaze darts up, uncertainty flickering across his face.

“She challenges you,” I continue, steepling my fingers. “Defies you. You will be placed in scenarios where you must assert dominance. You will guide her through exercises designed to break down her resistance while simultaneously reinforcing your own sense of control.”

“I don’t think she wants to be controlled.”

“That’s why it’s necessary.”

He frowns, fingers tightening against the fabric of his pants. I let the silence stretch before adding, “I believe this will benefit you greatly, Theodore.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“You will be monitored closely. Nothing will happen that I do not authorize. But if you refuse, I will have no choice but to continue her therapy through alternative means.”

“What does that mean?”

I exhale, feigning reluctance. “Eliza is volatile—resistant to conventional therapy. If we cannot correct that through behavioral intervention, I will be forced to implement stronger methods. By myself, if necessary. I’d much rather avoid that.”

His jaw tensed.

Ah, there it is. The subtle flicker of protectiveness. He doesn’t even recognize it yet, but I do. He sees himself in her. A lost cause. A fractured mind.

He wants to help her.

Good .

He can help me instead.

I lean forward slightly. “I believe in you, Theodore. This is your opportunity to change. To become something more than what you are now.” I let my words settle before delivering the final push. “You want to be more, don’t you?”

His fingers twitch.

He swallows.

And then, slowly, he nods.

Theodore’s nod is small, hesitant, but it’s enough. Progress. A single step toward something greater—toward his purpose.

I allow a measured pause before closing his file. “Good. We will begin tomorrow. In the meantime, I want you to reflect on what we’ve discussed. Prepare yourself.”

“And if she refuses?”

“She won’t.”

I rise from my chair, signaling the end of our discussion. Theodore follows suit, his movements stiff, unsure. He keeps his gaze down as he shuffles toward the door, but before he steps through, I speak again.

“You are more capable than you think, Theodore,” I tell him. “You just need someone to show you how.”

He hesitates. Then, without another word, he slips out of the office, leaving behind only the faint scent of antiseptic.

Weaknesses.

I exhale, long and slow, before turning my attention to the clock on the wall. It’s past midnight—the asylum is quieter now. The hallways settled into their usual nocturnal stillness. A perfect time for progress.

Just as I reach for Eliza’s file again, there’s a knock at my office door. A sharp, two-beat rap, followed by the click of the handle.

“Doctor,” a voice drawls.

I look up to find Edwin Locke standing in the doorway, his thick frame filling the narrow space.

He doesn’t bother waiting for permission before stepping inside.

Typical. Locke has been with the facility for five years.

Long enough to adopt its particular brand of detachment.

He’s an efficient man, broad-shouldered and slightly hunched, his uniform crisp but stretched tight across his bulk.

His nose is crooked from an old break, and a silver tooth glints when he speaks.

“Got another one waitin’ for you, Doc.” He rubs a large, scarred hand over his stubbled jaw. “Downstairs. Basement wing.”

I close Eliza’s file with a soft thump. “Who is it?”

“New guy. Arrived last week. Dunno his name. He’s a crier.” His lips curl slightly, almost amused. “Nurses tried to settle him, but he won’t shut up. Screamin’ about shadows in the walls, sayin’ they move when he sleeps.”

Interesting.

I smooth my hands over my desk, straightening a stack of papers. “Very well,” I say. “I’ll be down shortly.”

Locke gives a short nod, then turns on his heel, disappearing back into the dimly lit hall .

I take my time standing, collecting the necessary materials. A fresh notepad. A clean pen. A case of tranquilizers, just in case.

Some minds break easily.

Others require more pressure.

I smile faintly as I flick off the office light and step into the corridor, heading for the basement.