I ended up pacing around the room, doing laps around the bed until I miscalculated and slammed my thigh against the metal frame, causing me to stop cold. But my mind didn't stop. I was spiralling.
It wasn't just fear now. It wasn't just anguish, or guilt, or anger.
Now it was about survival.
I didn't want to let psychosis take over. I didn't want it to consume me. Because this place had ways of doing that to you, relentlessly eroding you, whether or not you let it. But I was trying to hold on. Just a little longer. To my sanity. My agency. Whatever shreds of autonomy I had left.
If I let it, I'd transform. Completely unravel. I'd stop being Emily Parker, and I'd become the shell of her. The bare bones. My body a vessel of fear, anxiety, and paranoia.
I didn't want to become like those poor souls in the cafeteria — empty-eyed, twitching, lost. I didn't want to be that girl I saw rocking violently with her leg bouncing under the table like a ticking bomb. I didn't want to be that man I heard repetitively mumbling something, almost schizophrenic. I didn't want to be that man hunched over his tray, convinced someone might steal his food. That disgusting, barely edible food.
Food.
Only then did I realise how hungry I was. I'd been so afraid that my body had forgotten to feel hunger, like survival had overridden every other function. But the moment I let myself think about it, the cramps twisted in. A gnawing hollowness bloomed deep in my gut, urgent and raw. Like my body was waking up the brain connection to my stomach.
Suddenly, I was excruciatingly starving.
But at the same time, I didn't have a choice. I had to wait. And wait. And wait. Until someone finally decided to walk through my door. Someone I could ask for food. Not Dylan or Tyler. Someone like Lee or James. Someone I could trust.
Finally, my head turned to the door again, eyes trained on the handle.
How long did I sit there? No idea.
But, eventually, the door creaked open again.
I recoiled and braced myself to see the scarred, grinning face of Dylan, or the cold, detached face of Tyler. Or anyone else. My body seized up, tight and ready.
The lock twisted. Click.
And then I relaxed.
I could breathe.
James.
He silently stepped inside and closed the door behind him, a clipboard tucked under his arm. I sat up slightly, gauze-wrapped arms still hugging myself, not quite ready to meet his eyes.
Then, he spoke.
"Good morning, Emily."
I just stared at him.
'Morning? Have I been awake all night? Fuck, I don't even know the time in here!'
James was quite observant. I mean, he had to be for his job. But it was like he could read my mind, sometimes. And just like he had, he said:
"Yes, it's morning now... I would get you a clock... but Tyler likely wouldn't allow it."
He said that almost bitterly. Like he'd asked before for other patients. After a thoughtful pause, he nudged the thin-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose and wet his lips slightly, as if grounding himself, before looking back up at me. Properly this time. Like he actually saw me.
"I just thought I'd check in," he said gently with a nod. "How's your arms?"
I glanced down at the bandages. "Still hurts," I managed to say with a wince.
He offered the faintest smile, stepping closer, then hesitated, maybe waiting to be invited in. I didn't say anything, but I shuffled away slightly. He sat beside me on a chair brought from the corner.
The clipboard landed in his lap, and I could see the form again — neat boxes, numbers, a space for 'session notes.' So official. So distant from the chaos inside me.
"Alright," James began, "let's start simple. On a scale of one to ten, how are you feeling today?"
I rubbed the side of my face, trying to find an answer. "Two," I muttered. "I'm... exhausted. Fucking starving."
He nodded, scribbling something down. "Fair. I'll bring you something to eat later."
Silence stretched between us, thick and uncertain. I could feel the questions clawing at the back of my throat, my top lip curling in a snarl, the need to understand everything. To make sense of this place. Of Tyler.
"What the fuck is this place?" I asked, my voice raw, something pricking my eyes as I stared at the sink. It was still dripping, but I'd learned to drown it out. I didn't hear it anymore, only when I actually watched it.
He looked up, his expression unreadable. "Technically... rehabilitation. But I think you already know that doesn't mean much."
"So what is it, then? Torture dressed up as therapy?" I could hear the edge creeping into my voice now, a storm rising in my chest. "Breaking people until they behave?"
James didn't flinch. "Tyler believes people can be reshaped through fear," he said carefully. "That once you strip someone down far enough, you can rebuild them into something... acceptable."
I couldn't hide how I was feeling, it always showed in my face. The way I glared through the tops of my eyes, angry and hurt all at once, told him everything he needed to know about how I was feeling right now.
"And you? Do you believe that?" I said, lowly.
Something flickered in his eyes, not guilt exactly. Something more tired. "No."
"Why do you work for him? I'd rather have opted for death."
He stayed still. Listening. Then sighed, long and exasperated.
"I survive," he said, quietly. Numbly. "Same as you."
That hit a nerve.
"I didn't ask to be brought here," I said. I sounded so bitter. "Why me? Why not someone else at that club? Why not someone stronger, or— or braver?"
"You were vulnerable," James said, slowly. "That's what he looks for."
I felt myself flinch. Not at the truth of it, but the coldness. The certainty. He'd said it like he'd seen it happen before. I sat with that for a moment, my fingers gripping the blanket in my lap.
"Tyler likes control," James continued, leaning in. "He can't function without it. But it doesn't cure anyone. It just conditions them."
I swallowed hard, another face coming to mind. "And Dylan? Why is he like that?"
James sighed, looked away. "He... adapted... in ways no-one else did. He found power where there was none. Became part of the system instead of fighting it."
I felt a chill settle in my chest. I'd thought Dylan was just lucky, untouchable in a way the rest of us weren't. But maybe it wasn't luck. Maybe it was a compromise between him and Tyler, or something along those lines. James's words gave me pause. I wondered if he'd noticed how much of himself he'd lost in this place.
"Tyler lets Dylan survive by the rules. But even he still pays the price for stepping out of line. We've all noticed the sling."
I knew that. Tyler had punished him after he’d cut my cheek. I shuddered at the memory of it. The cut had since healed over, but my fingers still traced the scab it had left like a reminder.
I leaned forward, bracing my hands either side of me on the edge of the table and locking my shoulders. The silence stretched again.
"Has anyone ever got out?" I whispered, already knowing the answer.
James didn't answer right away. When I looked at him, his expression was far away. My stomach dropped.
"Some disappear," he said at last. "We don't know where they go."
"You mean... they're killed?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
He closed the folder in his lap and exhaled, slow and tight. "Emily, listen... I know this is impossible to hear right now. But what you need most is time. Time to figure out how to survive here without losing yourself. If you fight too hard, too soon... it gets worse."
I bit the inside of my cheek and shook my head slowly, not fully registering the words anymore.
"Is there anyone I can trust?" I whispered.
James didn't answer. Instead, he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding my gaze. "Everyone wants out. But everyone has a role to play. Even me."
Something about the way he said that made me think. "You said Tyler believes everyone has a fear," I murmured. "So, what's his?"
That made him go still.
"I... I don't know," he said carefully. "No one does. He's too careful, controlled. So, if he does fear something, it's locked up tight."
I felt something icy settle in my chest. Tyler was a blank wall — no cracks, no signs of weakness. That kind of person wasn't just dangerous. He was invincible.
"What about you?" I asked.
James blinked. "Me?"
"What's your fear?"
He hesitated, gulped, clenched his fists in his lap. "Snakes," he said quietly, looking down at his feet.
He looked at his watch, cleared his throat loudly. "I should... uh... I should go. You need to rest."
He stood, hand on the door, but didn't open it yet. "You haven't met Sam yet, have you? He's the doctor. I'll see if he can stop by today or tomorrow."
I nodded faintly. As he slipped out, I didn't miss the small sigh he let out before closing the door. As if I'd exhausted him.
I sat there for a while, letting everything sink in. My head spun. My eyes zoned out, my vision blurring as I let my thoughts wander.
The dripping resumed. Not that it'd ever stopped — I just started hearing it again. The fluorescent light still buzzed and flickered.
Eventually, my vision refocused and I realised I'd been grinding my teeth. The blanket was crumpled on the floor but I didn't bother picking it up. I just lay back on the table, the cold metal pressing into my spine as it always did. I stared at the ceiling, eyes wide open, breathing deeply.
Control. That word kept circling. I didn't want to be remade. I didn't want to be erased. And I couldn't trust anyone.
But I could pretend. Pretend to play along. Pretend to break, just enough. Wait. Watch.
I figured I'd find the cracks in the walls eventually. And when I did, I'd escape through them.
But part of me already knew. As much as I tried to suppress the thought. It lingered in the back of my mind.
There was no escape.
Choose to survive or die trying.