Chapter 8

Amelie POV:

I woke up to blinding white light and the familiar, cloying smell of antiseptic. For a disoriented moment, I thought I was back in the ECT clinic, that I had simply fallen asleep before the procedure.

But this light was harsher, the silence more menacing.

I tried to sit up, but my body wouldn' t obey. A wave of nausea and a skull-splitting headache pinned me down. My arms... my arms were tied.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog in my brain. I twisted my wrists, and the rough texture of leather straps bit into my skin. I was strapped to a bed. A hospital bed.

Why was I strapped down?

The door opened, and Alex walked in. He looked exhausted, his face drawn and pale, but his eyes held a cold, hard resolve I had never seen before.

"Alex?" My voice was a raw whisper. "What' s going on? Let me go."

He stood at the foot of the bed, just looking at me. There was a flicker of something in his eyes-guilt? Regret?-but it was quickly extinguished by a chilling certainty.

"Kalie is completely broken, Amelie," he said, his voice flat. "The doctors say she has severe PTSD from what you did to her. She can' t eat. She can' t sleep. She just cries and screams your name."

"I didn' t do anything!" I tried to sit up again, pulling against the restraints. "She' s lying, Alex! Can' t you see that?"

He shook his head slowly, a look of profound disappointment on his face. "Still denying it. Even now. I thought... I thought you were better than this."

His words were like a physical blow. The last vestiges of the man I loved, the partner, the friend, evaporated, leaving behind this cold, cruel stranger.

"I' m sorry, Amelie," he said, and he almost sounded like he meant it. "But actions have consequences. You hurt her. Badly. And now... now you need to understand what that feels like."

He turned to a man in a doctor' s coat who had entered silently behind him. The man had a cruel twist to his lips and small, piggy eyes. It wasn' t my doctor from the clinic.

"She' s all yours, Doctor," Alex said. He slid a piece of paper across a small table-a consent form. My blood ran cold as I saw my name, my details, and his signature at the bottom. Alexander Martin (Fiancé, Next of Kin).

He had the right. We were still legally engaged. He had the right to make medical decisions for me.

He had the right to commit me.

"Alex, no!" I screamed his name, the sound tearing from my throat. "Alex, please! Don' t do this!"

He didn' t look back. He just walked out of the room, closing the door on my pleas.

The doctor with the piggy eyes smiled, a chilling, predatory expression. He picked up two metal paddles connected by wires to a machine in the corner.

"Mr. Martin has been very generous," the doctor said, his voice slick. "He' s asked me to take... special care of you. To make sure you have a truly... memorable experience."

He was coming closer. The machine hummed.

"This is not ECT, my dear," he said, his smile widening. "This is punishment."

He pressed the cold, metal discs to my temples.

The world exploded in a supernova of white-hot agony.

It wasn't the controlled, medically supervised procedure I had consented to. This was raw, brutal electricity searing through my brain. A scream was ripped from my lungs, a sound of pure, animal terror. My body arched against the restraints, convulsing violently.

I tried to fight, to think, to hold on to who I was. But the pain was absolute. It burned away thought, memory, identity.

Who was to blame? Kalie, for her pathological envy? Alex, for his weakness and cruelty? Bailey and my friends, for their blind betrayal? My mother, for teaching me that love was conditional and I was unworthy?

The questions dissolved in another searing wave of pain.

I was so tired. So tired of fighting, of trying, of being the strong one.

The doctor' s face loomed over me, a twisted mask of professional concern. "There, there. It will all be over soon."

Another shock. My body jerked, a puppet on a string. Tears streamed from my eyes, hot against my cold skin.

Just let it be over, a small voice in the wreckage of my mind whispered. Just let me disappear.

Days bled into one another in a haze of pain and confusion. Sometimes they gave me shocks. Sometimes they just left me strapped to the bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind a scrambled, chaotic mess.

Then, one day, the door opened, and Alex was there again. He looked haggard, guilt etched into every line of his face. He was holding my coat.

"It' s over," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "You can go."

He undid the restraints. My arms fell limply to my sides, my wrists raw and bruised. I sat up slowly, my body aching, my head a hollow drum.

He tried to put the coat around my shoulders, his touch a phantom of a long-dead tenderness. "Let me take you home, Amelie."

Home. The word was meaningless.

I slid off the bed, my legs shaky. I let the coat slip from my shoulders and fall to the floor. When he reached for my hand, I pulled away.

"Don' t," I said, my voice a dry, scratchy thing I didn' t recognize. "Ever. Touch me. Again."

He recoiled, his face stricken. "Amelie, I... I did it for you. To teach you a lesson. So you would stop hurting Kalie. I' ll make it up to you, I promise."

The absurdity of his words was so immense, I couldn' t even summon the energy to be angry. I was empty.

His phone rang, a cheerful, jarring tune. He answered it, his voice instantly shifting to one of gentle concern. "Kalie? What' s wrong? Are you okay? No, I' m... I' m just finishing up here. I' ll be right there."

He hung up and looked at me, his face torn. "I have to go."

Of course he did.

He rushed out, leaving me standing alone in the room that had been my prison.

I didn't go "home." I took a taxi straight to the ECT clinic. To Dr. Albright, my real doctor. I had one session left. One final erasure.

The kind nurse, Nurse Evans, held my hand as they prepped me. "You look exhausted, dear. Are you sure you' re up for this?"

I just nodded, a single tear tracing a path through the grime on my cheek.

"Okay, Amelie," Dr. Albright said softly. "We' re starting the anesthetic. Just count backwards from ten."

I closed my eyes.

Ten. For the years of my life I was about to burn away.

Nine. For the friends who had abandoned me.

Eight. For the career I had built and lost.

Seven. For the home that was no longer mine.

Six. For the scar that would forever mark my forehead.

Five. For the sister who had destroyed me.

Four. For the man who had ordered my torture.

Three. For the last vestiges of a love that had turned to poison.

Two. For the final, blessed act of letting go.

One.

Darkness.

And then, silence.