Page 112 of Mind Maze

The door opens again, but this time, it’s a different man.

Doc Junior.

A tidal wave of nerves washes over me, making me shudder, tugging at my restraints. My skin burns from the tight leather cutting into my flesh. Sores are beginning to form.

“Hello, Miss Langston,” Doc Junior says cheerfully. “Long time, no see.”

I’m able to flip him off, which only makes him laugh. He’s not put off by the gesture whatsoever.

“Ready for some therapy?” he asks, eyebrow arching. “Or shall I help you pee first?”

“Let me out of this bed,” I whisper, voice brittle and dry. “Please.”

“Not happening.” He comes to stand beside me and studies me as though I’m a moth under a microscope. “Do you know what day it is?”

“Where is Kaitlyn?” I demand. “Take me to her.”

He sighs heavily. “We’ll get nothing accomplished if you answer my questions with questions.”

“I guess we’re at an impasse then,” I hiss, pinning him with a furious glare.

He’s quiet for a beat and then nods. “Fine. Kaitlyn is undergoing some of our more formal therapies to prime her for something new and advanced we’ve been working on.”

I don’t like the sound of that at all.

“Just let her go,” I plead. “You can do whatever you want to me, but send her back to Caius.”

He shakes his head, giving me a pitying look. “Oh, see, that can’t happen, unfortunately.”

I scream and spit and twist in my restraints until I’m out of breath, spent of all energy. Doc Junior is unmoved by my tantrum. He leaves the room and returns with a syringe. I don’t have the strength to fight against this anymore.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

My eyes snap open, an eerie clarity instantly making every nerve in my mind come alive.

I’m no longer in the bed.

This time, I sit in a chair with wires attached to places on my head, neck, face, and chest. For a split second, I wonder if I’m in an electric chair about to be zapped to death.

There is buzzing coming from the wires but not enough to fry my brain.

What is happening?

I am facing a blank wall and unable to move my head. It appears to be cradled in some sort of brace mechanism. WhenI start trying to shake my head, a strong pulse of electricity gets me on the side of my neck, causing everything to go hot and white for a moment.

It’s like I’m in a dog’s shock collar, except there are leads all over my upper half. They could shock me into oblivion. The threat is real.

“Welcome to the beginning of your transformation, Romy,” Doc Junior says, voice sadistically joyful. “You’re going to be blown away with how far things have come along since you first started receiving psychiatric treatment.”

“You’re going to shock me into submission?” I demand, fighting the ball of emotion clogging my throat. “Been there. Done that. It didn’t work.”

The therapies that were forced upon me at just six years old are something I try to block out of my mind for my own sanity, but they’re always there lurking and reminding me of that terrible time.

“There are some behavioral modification leads on you, yes, but they’re meant to keep you on track, not to hurt you,” he reveals, chuckling in that dark, evil way of his. “This is primarily for data collection.”

What do they intend to collect from me?

“Watch the show, Romy.” Something clicks behind me and then a large rectangular light forms on the blank wall. “I’ll walk you through what we’re doing here.”

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