Page 9 of Writhe (Wellard Asylum)

T he sun presses warm against my skin—a rare comfort in this place.

I tilt my face toward it, letting the light seep into me, trying to hold on to the feeling, trying to make it last. They allow us an hour out here a week to sit in the gardens.

Some patients play with a ball, tossing and catching.

The grass is freshly cut, the fresh smell bringing me back home—to my childhood.

Next to me, Rina talks without stopping, her voice spilling over itself in frantic waves.

“It was beautiful,” she says, eyes bright with the memory—or the lie. “White sand, water so clear you could see straight to the bottom. We stayed in this resort with these huge balconies. You would’ve loved it.”

I hum noncommittally. I don’t know if it’s true—I don’t know if any of her stories are true.

Rina is a habitual liar. A storyteller. A girl who spins worlds out of words because the real one has been cruel to her.

The more she seeks me out, the more I have found comfort in her presence. Even if it’s persistent in nature.

An orderly passes by, a redheaded, freckled little thing, but he must go to the gym because he’s built well. He winks at Rina and I watch her. She smirks, tilting her chin up slightly in acknowledgment, but doesn’t stop talking. When he’s gone, I say, “You’re sleeping with him.”

She grins. “Jealous?”

“No. Just wondering what you get out of it.” This isn’t the first time Rina has slept with an orderly to get her way. At least this one is halfway decent looking.

Rina stretches her arms overhead, tilting her body like a cat in the sun. “A little of this, a little of that.”

I stare.

She laughs. “Fine. You want details? He gives me cigarettes, extra desserts, some extra privileges, and one day, he’s going to get me out of here.”

“Oh? He told you that?”

“Mm-hmm. He said he’s going to marry me—take me away from all this bullshit. We’ll have a little house somewhere warm. Maybe even go back to that island I told you about.”

“You really believe that?”

“Believe it? What choice do I have? You either play the game or you get crushed. Do you think they let people out of here just because they’re better? No. They let out the ones who know how to make themselves . . . useful.”

I wish I could say she was lying.

But I’ve seen the empty beds—the ones that belonged to girls who used to be here. Girls who didn’t learn fast enough. Girls who fought too hard, or not hard enough.

Rina might be a liar, but she’s not stupid.

A sharp whistle cuts through the garden, signaling the end of our precious hour outside. The moment the sun hits my skin, it’s ripped away, swallowed by the cold sterility of the asylum halls. Orderlies round us up like cattle, their hands firm but uninterested as they herd us through the doors.

Rina walks ahead of me, her hair swinging as she slips easily into her role. She laughs, she flirts, she plays the part she’s chosen. And they let her.

I envy her, just a little.

She’s right. There’s a way to survive here, but I don’t know how to pretend.

The Doctor asks Theo and I to join him in his office for our first session.

He says that it would be more beneficial for me to work with just one other person versus a group.

So, these sessions are in lieu of group ones.

His office is sort of dingy—void of anything personal.

The metal desk has meticulously organized papers, a few manilla envelopes stacked on top of one another, a legal pad, and a pen cup with four of the same black ball-point pens.

The Doctor scratches something on a notepad, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. I shift uncomfortably in the plastic cushioned chair—it squeaks.

A collar sits on the table. It’s made of thick black leather with a large metal buckle. In a way, it looks pretty just sitting there. Waiting to be used. I’ve had my fair share of kinky partners, but the thought of collaring? Why does it arouse me? Only slightly, though.

Finally, the doctor looks up from his scribbling. He sighs softly. “So today, we are going to start with something simple. Since you didn’t enjoy my trust exercises. We need to start with something more . . . insightful.”

He eyes the collar, then looks back at me and Theo, who is beside me.

I don’t move. Neither does Theo.

The Doctor leans back in his office chair, legs crossed, the clipboard balanced on one knee. He hasn’t looked at it once—he doesn’t need to.

“Eliza. Come here.”

I don’t.

He gestures to Theo. “Theo . . . you will take that and collar her.” Theo’s eye twitches in the corner, but it’s the biggest reaction I’ve seen from him since we walked in.

He looks at me and I see it all right there on his face.

The nerves, the shame, the thing in him that knows this is wrong.

But that doesn’t stop his hand from moving.

Slowly, he reaches for the collar. His fingers hesitate over the buckle and he swallows hard. “Eliza. Just?—”

Just comply. Just let it happen.

I shake my head.

The Doctor sighs. “Theo.” This time, there’s no hesitation. He moves. Fast.

The collar is rough against my throat as he fastens it into place, fingers clumsy but get the job done. A sickness slithers through me. He doesn’t want to do this. But that doesn’t mean he hates it. Who are these sick freaks?

The thought makes something in me recoil, a twisted thing curling deep in my ribs. I want to rip the damn thing off, want to spit in the doctor’s face, but Theo is still touching me. His fingertips ghost along my neck, like he’s checking the fit, like he’s making sure it’s not too tight.

Like he’s pretending to be gentle.

“Good,” the doctor says, and I want to tear the word from his throat. “Now, she needs to learn obedience. Make her crawl.”

My stomach twists so violently I think I might be sick.

“What?” Theo tenses.

“Go to the other side of the room and make your pet come to you.”

“Doctor . . . I . . . uh . . . ”

“Come on. You need to train your pet.” He looks at me. “Just get on your hands and knees.”

I stare at him and the air in the room shrinks.

My breath is too loud in my own ears. My pulse beats hot and angry in my throat—against the collar—like it’s trying to break free.

This is ridiculous—degrading. No part of this is therapeutic.

My brain wants to tell him to go fuck himself.

To rip this leather collar off of my neck and storm out of here. But I can’t.

My new pills—I can feel them dragging me down. Pulling me further into his complicity.

Theo looks like he wants to disappear. His cheeks are flushed, his jaw tight.

I should hate him. But it’s hard to hate someone when they look like they might just break apart if you touch them too hard, which makes it worse.

Because if he wanted this—if he liked this—it would be easier to fight him.

It would be easier to bite and claw and spit in his face.

But he’s trembling just as much as I am. He walks slowly across the room.

I stay still.

The Doctor clicks his tongue. “Eliza, do as you’re told.”

I don’t move.

Theo exhales sharply, a shuddering, guilty breath. “Please.”

My nails dig into my palms. He’s begging me to make it easy on him.

I won’t.

THEO

Eliza isn’t an animal.

She doesn’t want this. I don’t either. So why is my pulse hammering so fucking hard? And why is my dick so fucking hard. I widen the gap between Eliza and I, trying to make her understand with my eyes that she has to do this.

The Doctor hums in approval. “Now, Theo, tell her what she is.”

My throat goes dry. “What?”

He exhales, like he’s disappointed in me. “Tell her what she is.” A pause. “Say it.”

I don’t want to.

The Doctor clicks his tongue. “Still resisting? You don’t want to make this difficult, Theo. Tell her what she is.”

I swallow hard. My voice comes out quiet—wrong. “A pet,” I whisper.

Eliza’s jaw tightens.

“Louder.”

I hesitate too long.

The Doctor sighs. “Make her crawl.”

Eliza’s head snaps toward him, eyes dark and burning. “No.”

A single word .

The Doctor only smiles. “Then you know what happens next.”

My stomach plummets. I see it in her eyes—she knows too.

Her hands tremble as she curls them into fists.

Her breath comes quicker now, her chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow motions.

She’s not scared—she’s furious. I look at the doctor, hoping .

. . What? That he’ll change his mind? That he’ll stop?

He only lifts a brow. “Do it, Theo.”

I don’t move.

“Eliza needs discipline. Show her what happens when she disobeys.”

I should say no—I should fight this—but I don’t. I walk across the room and reach for her. She jerks away, but she’s too slow. I grab her wrist, pull her forward, drag her across the floor and onto the bench against the wall, bringing her to my lap like a doll with cut strings.

A doll. My beautiful porcelain doll.

Her body is stiff beneath my hands. Her skin is warm, burning against my fingertips. My pulse slams against my ribs. Too fast, too wrong.

“Five,” the doctor instructs. “Hard ones.”

My hands won’t stop shaking. I’ve never done this before.

Eliza presses her forehead against the plastic cushion of the bench, her breathing shallow—waiting.

I lift my hand. Hesitating.

The Doctor clicks his pen against his notepad. “Theo.”

I bring my palm down. Crack. Eliza jolts. A sharp inhale—wait, there was no sound. I felt that—the heat of it. The way her body tensed, every muscle locking up for a second before she forces herself still.

“Again.”