Page 105 of The Secretary Volume II

When the lights come back on, I speak.“Two more.”

He doesn’t cry this time.Doesn’t move.But he takes the pliers again.And for the first time since I started, I think he’s starting to believe he’s going to die here.

And he’s right.He just doesn’t know how slowly.

60

Gillian

He won’t look at the camera anymore.He crouches by the wall, head down, the tray beside him like a shrine.His fourth tooth is there now—jagged, bloody.Like it resisted more than the others.He’s quiet.Weak.Obedient.Almost gone.

First, I give him a tiny cup of water.Then the tools.

A scalpel.A curved blade—sterile, but dulled.A wire retractor.A compact mirror.Saline solution.Gauze.And a single instruction card.

I slide the tray down the hatch.“Thirsty?There’s more where that came from.”

He doesn’t reach for the tools.

So I press the intercom button.

“Remember what you said?You said it would be quick.”

He flinches.

“You said I’d blink and it’d be over.”

I crouch outside the door.Lean in.

“You said, ‘Hold still or we’ll miss.’Do you remember?”

Still he doesn’t move.

“You’re going to remove the epithelium.Just the top layer.Like you had them do to me.You won’t go deeper.Not yet.”

I hear the tray rattle.He’s shaking.I keep going.

“The mirror’s coated.You’ll see what matters.”

He says something, but it’s no longer coherent.Just wet air and panic.

I press the speaker button and turn up the gain.

“Take the blade.Lift your eyelid.Hold the mirror.”

He starts to cry—loud, like a dying animal.

I wait.

Because overriding your survival reflex takes time.

I should know.

They made me do it with no blade, no warning.They called it acalibration incident.Said the screaming was a “noncompliant reflex.”I lost part of my vision for three days.I kept blinking at corners like something was hiding there.

Ellis tries not to blink, tries to breathe through it.He’s holding the mirror with both hands.Trying to steady the reflection.

Then—

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