Page 103 of The Secretary Volume II

Soon he’ll see.It’s not pain that breaks you.It’s the waiting for it.

Day Seven, he pulls the first tooth.

I don’t watch.I’m listening in the hallway.The rag tears.Enamel scrapes against metal, a wet pop, and then the sound—the one no one talks about.The one that comes when pain hits the brain and the body stops knowing how to scream.He drops it into the tray.

I slide a bottle of warm water through the hatch.He drinks like a dog—face buried in the straw.When he looks at the camera, there’s no anger, just bewilderment.Like he still doesn’t understand how this happened.Like it doesn’t occur to him this is just the start.

I whisper again: “Three more.”

He doesn’t respond.

But he doesn’t say no, either.

59

Gillian

There’s movement on the monitor.He’s stirring.

I tap the intercom.“Rise and shine.”

He jerks awake like a startled dog, tries the door, realizes, and freezes.

Good.

I let the silence stretch.

He doesn’t speak at first.Probably thinks this is still a prank.A misstep.A misunderstanding.He always misjudges what someone will do when you take away every other option.

I press the intercom again.

“Do you remember the first time you watched me cry in this room?”

He says something.It cuts out mid-syllable.He’s trying the intercom from inside.

“It was after the procedure,” I continue.“You leaned against the door while I screamed.Do you remember what you said?”

I already know he doesn’t.Men like Ellis never remember the things they say when they feel powerful.But I do.I remember every syllable.Every breath.Every time I tried to be good.

I switch tracks.

There’s a delay—then the audio kicks in.

“Stop crying.”

“You’re lucky we kept your face intact.”

“Next time, we won’t.”

His voice.From the archive.

I loop it into the room.Layered over white noise and a heartbeat sample pulled from one of his own stress tests.

Then I turn the heater all the way up.

PsychLink runs on patterns.So do breakdowns.

He sleeps in short, shallow loops now.Ten minutes, maybe less.The kind of sleep your body takes without permission.He wakes choking, always.Dreams of drowning, maybe.His throat is raw.Eyes bloodshot.He’s covered in his own sweat, piss, vomit.He smells like a person who’s been forgotten.And maybe, in some ways, he has.

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