I didn't say anything after Sam left.
James didn't either, not at first. He stood in place for a moment, clipboard in hand, then pulled the chair from the corner to sit beside the table. His movements were methodical, almost too quiet, like he'd done this dozens of times and was trying not to rattle me.
When he looked at me over the top of his glasses, he didn't smile. His expression remained. He looked tired, and concerned, and... pitiful. And that angered me.
I almost opened my mouth to speak that thought aloud, but he cut me off just before I could.
"We need to do a mental health assessment," he said.
I blinked. Once. Twice. Before my face contorted into a scowl of distain.
"It's okay, we'll take it slow. I just need you to answer a few questions. That's all. This is just to understand where you're at, so I can help you."
He spoke so gently, as if it would dampen the growing flame in my chest.
I turned my head away, looked at the wall, at the dent where Tyler had thrown the tray. "Do I have a choice?" I said, my voice flat and almost resigned.
James nodded. "You always have a choice. But silence is still an answer."
'Fuck you,' I thought, but bit it back. My arms wrapped tighter around my chest, fingers digging into my ribs in forced restraint.
I was trying so hard to keep it together.
"Fine," I mumbled.
He crossed his leg over his knee, pen poised. "Okay, let's start simple. How would you describe your current mood?"
I exhaled, long and bitter. "Like I've been ground into paste and stuffed back into a skin suit."
A beat. He wrote that down. "That's... oddly specific. Could you elaborate?"
"No."
He kept writing. His face was unreadable, but his eyes flicked back to mine now and then, always watching.
James adjusted the clipboard in his lap. "Do you think there's been any... sense of improvement since you arrived here? Any moment that felt... even slightly better?"
I slowly turned my head and glared at him, my jaw tightening. "Are you serious?"
And then I laughed, bitterly. "You mean since I was kidnapped, starved, cut up like a butchered pig, and bandaged like some fucked-up science experiment?"
He didn't flinch.
"No!" I snapped. "Absolutely fucking not!"
He paused again, slower this time. His hand hovered before he wrote, as if he were choosing his words carefully.
"Okay..." he whispered. He looked — hurt? Irritated? Just for a second, and then it disappeared as he rubbed the end of his nose with the back of his index finger.
I sat there, seething. Chewing my lips, breathing slowly.
"This therapy doesn't mean shit," I muttered through clenched teeth. "It's like you've handed me a bucket in a sinking ship and said, 'Good luck.' "
He scribbled something shorter this time. Paused. Sighed. Took off his glasses and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. I knew what he was thinking. That I wasn't going to be as easy to deal with as he thought. Or maybe that I was an annoying bitch. I didn't care. I was past caring. About anything.
"Understandable... Do you have any questions for me?"
"Yeah," I said. "Why are you still here?"
That one landed. His lips thinned just slightly, but he nodded again, like he'd expected it.
"Alright," he said, calmly. "One last thing."
I tensed.
"You've been dissociating a lot recently. Just before we entered the room today, you were... absent. Can you tell me where you were?"
"No," I said too fast, hands curling into fists.
"Emily—"
"I said no."
"Please... I just need to understand what's going on in your mind when it happens. I can't help you if you don't tell me."
I snapped.
"You wanna fucking know?!" I yelled. "I was in high school! Doing a dumb fucking history project, and everyone was staring at me, like I was—"
I cut myself off. My hands were trembling. My breathing erratic and shallow.
"And my creepy fucking History teacher kept staring at me! Not at my face! Not even pretending to! My chest! My legs! My skirt! Like I didn't even count as a person! Like I was a fucking piece of meat! And I couldn't say anything because if I did, I'd just be the crazy girl! The overreactor! The freak!"
My voice was shaking. My throat hurt. Tears stung my eyes like shards of glass.
"I don't fucking want to be here!" I screamed, rising off the table. "I don't want to keep waking up in this fucking room! I don't want to be this! This— this patient! This thing you poke and sedate and ask questions like it's going to fucking fix something!"
James remained still.
"I hate this place! I hate all of you! And if this is what being alive is— if this is what I have to wake up to every day, then what's the fucking point?!"
My chest heaved. My throat burned. The words wouldn't stop. A landslide. A purge. "I don't want to live like this! I can't!"
I collapsed back down onto the table, shaking so violently my teeth rattled.
James didn't move for a moment. Then, quiet and clinical, he capped the pen. Stood. Walked over to the counter.
And opened the drawer.
I heard the sound before I saw it. That plastic click of a vial cap. The snap of rubber gloves.
He turned, syringe in hand.
I bolted upright.
"No! NO! FUCK YOU!"
James froze mid-step. "Please, Emily. It's just a sedative—"
"Stay the fuck away from me!" I backed off the table, stumbling, knocking my shoulder into the wall.
He took a cautious step forward. "Emily, you need this."
"NO! Don't touch me! Don't you fucking dare!"
I lunged for the metal tray and gripped it tight, holding it in front of me like a shield. My arms were shaking but I held it high, between us.
"You think you can just knock me out when I scream too loud?! Fuck off! I'm not going under again!"
His voice softened. "Emily, I swear. I'm not trying to hurt you."
"Bullshit!" I screamed. Sobbed. "I've seen what happens in this place! I've felt it! Just because you have a calm voice and clean hands doesn't mean you're not part of it all!"
He raised his hands slowly, dropped the syringe back in the drawer, and started backing toward the door. "Okay. Okay… I hear you. I'm not going to touch you. But I can't leave you like this."
James hesitated, eyes flicking between me and the tray in my hands. Then he made a decision.
"I'm going to get help," he said, a resigned expression on his face. He opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and shut it behind him.
Click.
Finally, I was alone. Still clutching the tray like it was a shield that could save me. I trembled violently, my voice gone, hot tears streaming down my face, my mind a fog of red mist, anger curling deep in my veins.
I wasn't safe.
Not even close.
And I didn't dare move.
Minutes later, the door burst open.
Footsteps — fast, heavy. Scraping. Clattering.
I tried to scramble into the corner, but hands grabbed me before I could even register what was happening. One hand wrapped around my wrist. Another dragged me to the table by my shoulder. I screamed as loud as I could and thrashed.
But they overpowered me too fast.
"Hold her still! Watch her arm!" James barked.
"NO! No! Get off me! Don't fucking touch me!" I howled. My back hit the table again. I kicked out blindly, heels hammering into something solid — someone grunted in pain.
A second later, my legs were pinned. One knee forced down by a muscular hand. I looked up. Lee, platinum hair tied back, arms tense, sweat beading on his brow. "Got her legs," he said.
"Careful," Sam's voice came from somewhere above me. "She's having a panic attack."
Another figure leaned in from the side, tall, lean, with short-cropped black hair and charcoal eyes that didn't flinch. She was the only one I didn't recognise. "Raven," someone had said. She didn't hesitate. Just pressed both hands firmly onto my right shoulder, pinning me harder.
"Let me GO!" I shrieked, voice ripping like a banshee from my throat. "You're not drugging me! I swear to God, I'll kill you—!"
Then I saw him .
Tyler.
Standing in the open doorway. Not moving. Not helping. Just watching. Smoking a cigarette. Dark, onyx eyes on me. No expression.
Something inside me shattered.
"Get him out! Get him out!" I wailed.
"Tyler, go away," James shouted.
He didn't move. But he didn't interfere, either. Just kept watching like he was waiting for something. For what, though?
Suddenly, a sharp sting pierced my neck — stinging, burning, deep.
My whole body arched against the table. "ARGHHH— fuck!" I gasped. My breath caught, a surge of heat flooding down my spine.
James's face loomed above me for half a second, eyes stern. "It's just to calm you down, Emily. You're going to be okay."
But his voice was already slipping away.
Everything felt thick. Muffled.
Sam's hand was on my forehead. I couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel anything but heat and ice spiralling through my veins. My heartbeat slowed in my ears.
The light flickered.
Faces blurred.
Someone said my name. Maybe more than once.
And then I was gone again.