Page 124 of Inevitable Endings
“The damage goes deeper than I thought,” he says finally, his eyes fixed on the brain scans. “You know the terms: reactive psychosis, dissociation, hypervigilance responses. The scans show overactivation in the limbic system, erratic bursts in the prefrontal cortex. He’s locked in fight-or-flight, even when unconscious.”
“Is he in pain?” I ask, my voice quieter than it should be.
Hsu looks at me. Not like a doctor. Not like a judge. Just a man who’s seen too much, like I have. “Yes,” he says. “But it’s not new pain. It’s old. Buried deep. Festering.”
I press my arms tighter around my chest. “Then don’t write about it like a disease.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Just nods slightly, scribbles something down. “Physically—he’s suffering malnourishment, dehydration, multiple re-broken fractures along the ribs, two in the wrist. They’ve healed wrong. And yet he moved like none of that mattered during the episode. His body is barely holdingtogether, but his brain… that’s what keeps lashing out. He is incredibly strong.”
I nod. I already knew. It’s not about safety or containment. It’s about survival. His body is a weapon designed in response to darkness. It learned not to trust hands. Not to trust light. It learned how to stay alive when there was no one left to protect it.
‘‘He is dangerous.’’
“He can’t be restrained,” I tell Hsu, more firmly now. “When he wakes, it’ll trigger everything again.”
“You say that like you’ll be enough to hold him down with your voice alone.”
I don’t answer. I stare through the glass instead, at Aslanov’s slack face, the faint bruise blooming across his collarbone, the way his hand curls inwards like he’s still protecting something.
Hsu sighs, shifts his clipboard again. “I’m not saying tie him down like a beast. But wedohave to think about safety. His, and yours. The sedative will wear off within the hour. The meds we’ve started will need time. That means he’s going to wake up in a window of vulnerability… and power. That is not an ideal combination.”
“He’s weak,” I whisper.
“He’s hurt,” Hsu corrects. “Not weak. There’s a difference. His body is damaged, yes—but it’s adaptive. What you saw earlier? That wasn’t strength. That was survival instinct overriding physical limits. That’s the most dangerous kind of strength. Unfiltered, irrational, automatic.”
He glances back at the file and taps the page.
“I’ve started him on olanzapine, for the psychosis, standard antipsychotic. Helps level out hallucinations, delusions, confusion. That alone takes time to stabilize in the bloodstream—he’ll need a few days for therapeutic levels. For the panic disorder and PTSD spikes, we’ve introduced clonazepam, short-term, fast-acting. It’ll dull the edge of the panic response, butagain—only temporarily. And then there’s the muscle tremors, the sleep disruption. We’re managing those with low-dose gabapentin. Not ideal, but it’ll reduce the hypersensitivity and nerve pain.”
I listen. I know these names. I know the logic.
But it still feels like handing water to someone drowning in an ocean.
I turn toward him, finally meeting his eyes. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing when he lashes out. He’s not choosing to be violent.”
“I know. But that doesn’t make it any less violent.”
Dr. Hsu’s voice softens into something careful. “We’ll use the Velcro restraints. Nothing hard. No metal. No locks. Just enough to limit sudden movement until the medication stabilizes.”
I nod, slowly. My throat feels raw from the words I haven’t said.
“I’m not going to disappear,” Hsu adds. “You can call me whenever. For anything. You know that, I told Ada and Sawyer the same.”
His voice is calm, measured like everything else about him, but I feel the warmth in it. The kindness he doesn’t say out loud but wraps around his actions like invisible thread.
“I know,” I say, and I mean it.
We stand there together in the quiet for a moment. His presence is never loud. It doesn’t demand space, just makes space, like a shadow with weight.
He turns his head, looking back through the glass. Aslanov hasn’t moved. His body is still tense, even under the sedation. Like he’s holding his breath somewhere far beneath the surface, waiting for the next pain to land.
‘‘Move him back into a room with as little stimulus as possible. No overhead lights, no reflective surfaces, no medical clutter. Neutral colors. No mirrors. Nothing he could mistake for athreat. Keep his medication up for at least three weeks. This is what is best for now, and you know it.’’
I nod.
Hsu adjusts the strap of his bag, checks the file one last time.
“I’ll be gone in twenty,” he says. “My name’s not here. My visit doesn’t exist. You know how to reach me.”
