101
She stood near the door, her body slouched against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like I was some kind of wild animal that might snap at any second. Her dark hair was in a messy knot at the nape of her neck, and her lips curled up in something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t really anything else either.
“Welcome back, psycho,” she said, voice low and lazy, like she had been expecting me to wake up talking to ghosts.
I swallowed, throat dry, and finally took in my surroundings.
The room was small, too white, too clean. The fluorescent lights cast a dull glow over everything, making the already pale walls look even more lifeless. There were metal trays on a nearby counter, stacked with neatly folded bandages, gauze, medical scissors. A glass cabinet stood against the wall, filled with small bottles of pills and syringes. It smelled like antiseptic, a sharp sting in my nose, mixing with the faint scent of something floral—probably from the bundle of half-wilted lavender shoved into a plastic cup by the window.
An infirmary.
The last woman in the room stood a few steps away, near a rolling medical cart. She wasn’t like the others. She wasn’t some fighter or killer or whatever the hell they were.
Though she looked like she belonged here.
Middle-aged, maybe in her fifties. Her light brown hair had started to go gray, pulled back into a low bun, a few loose strands framing her lined face. She wore a simple white coat over dark clothes, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her hands were clasped together in front of her, like she was steadying herself before speaking.
Her eyes, a warm shade of hazel, held something I couldn’t quite place. Pity, maybe. Or regret.
She exhaled softly, tilting her head in a way that reminded me of someone about to break bad news to a sick child.
“Eleanor,” she said gently, her voice careful, like I might shatter. “How are you feeling?”
Adeline clicked her tongue, pushing off the wall with an exaggerated sigh. Her arms were crossed, nails tapping against her upper arm, her weight shifting from one foot to the other like she was barely holding back from pacing. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, the kind that clung to hospital walls, but beneath it was something else, something more human—sweat, the faint metallic tang of blood, the remnants of perfume that had long faded from my skin.
“Well, go on,” Adeline said, waving a lazy hand toward the woman. “Tell her what you told us.”
The woman hesitated. Her eyes flicked toward me, then back to Adeline, like she was weighing something in her head. There was a small twitch at the corner of her mouth, not quite a frown, not quite anything at all, just a brief tightening of her lips. Her fingers flexed against the fabric of her coat, like she was smoothing out invisible wrinkles, like she needed something to do with her hands to keep them steady.
She inhaled quietly, straightened her shoulders, then took a slow, careful step toward my bed.
“My name is Dr. Evelyn Marchette,” she said, her voice even, controlled. “I specialize in schizophrenia and other mental disorders.”
A cold feeling slid down my spine, pooling in my stomach, making my skin feel too tight, too hot and too cold all at once. My fingers curled against the sheets, the fabric rough beneath my palms, grounding me, tethering me to something tangible, something real.
“Cut to the chase,” I snapped.
Dr. Marchette didn’t so much as flinch. If my tone had any effect on her, she didn’t show it. Her hands were still now, clasped neatly in front of her.
“Have you been taking your medication, Eleanor?” she asked.
A scoff scraped up my throat. “I’m not crazy.”
The doctor didn’t blink. “That’s not what I asked.”
My jaw clenched, my teeth pressing together so hard my skull ached. My throat felt dry, too dry, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth when I swallowed. The room felt smaller, like the walls were inching closer, pressing inward. My breath came too fast, shallow and uneven.
For thirteen years, I had been fine. No voices. No hallucinations. No paranoia creeping into the edges of my vision. I had been normal. I had been in control.
And then Dominic kidnapped me.
And everything came back.
The flashes, the sounds that weren’t real, the crawling sensation beneath my skin, like something was writhing just beneath the surface, burrowing into my veins, into my brain.
I hesitated.
Then, quieter this time, I said, “It only started again a few days ago.”
Dr. Marchette’s lips parted slightly. “Oh.”
She adjusted the cuff of her sleeve, a small movement, like she was considering something, like she was filing information away in her mind.
Then she began listing them off.
“The auditory hallucinations have increased. You’re hearing things constantly, even when there’s silence.”
A shiver ran down my spine.
“You’re seeing things that aren’t there—flashes, figures, entire scenarios that your mind is creating in real time. And they feel real, don’t they?”
My throat closed up. I exhaled through my nose, a barely-there sound, but my chest was tight, too tight, like something was pressing down on me.
“You’ve been experiencing derealization. Moments where you can’t tell what’s real and what’s not. It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”
I shook my head, tiny, almost imperceptible. My hands curled into fists, nails pressing into my palms.
“You’ve lost entire blocks of time. Hours, maybe days, and you don’t know where they went.”
I shook my head again, harder this time.
“You’ve become increasingly paranoid. The people around you—they don’t feel real to you, do they? You think they’re imposters. You think they’re watching you, planning something.”
“No.” My voice cracked, barely above a whisper.
“You’ve started seeing patterns in things that aren’t there. Random words, numbers, symbols. You think they have hidden meanings, don’t you?”
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