Restraint

Elizabeth cast her eyes across the equipment arrayed on her desk, her breath tight in her chest. She had already checked everything twice . . . no, three times, but still her fingers twitched toward the nearest object, nudging it a fraction to the left. Then another. A slight adjustment to the optical sensor, the electrode leads realigned to face perfectly forward. An obsessive ritual, but one she could not seem to stop herself from performing.

Everything was there.

Perfect.

She lowered herself carefully into her chair, placing both hands flat on the desk’s edge, fingers curling tight as if steadying herself against an invisible sway. Her eyes locked on the plastic chair sitting across from her desk. A squat, ugly thing with chrome legs that glinted faintly beneath the overhead lights.

No.

This wouldn’t do.

Too many barriers. Too much distraction.

She stood abruptly, the chair scraping faintly against the floor, and dragged both chairs toward the centre of the room. She paused, tilting her head, narrowing her eyes at the alignment.

Still wrong.

She nudged the plastic chair slightly to the left, stepping back to survey the result. Her pulse quickened. Not with fear, but with the maddening pressure of not yet right. She reached up, brushing a stray hair back behind her ear with the flat of her fingers. She was beginning to sweat.

Mr Langley would be arriving any minute.

Again, she reached for her own chair, lifting it by its thin, brittle frame and positioning it directly across from the plastic one. She took a careful step back, examining the gap between them. A moment’s hesitation… then she dropped into her seat, turning slightly to check her reach toward the desk.

Fingers outstretched… yes. She could still reach the equipment.

Good.

Excellent.

Her attention flicked back to the plastic chair, its presence now feeling… precarious. A perfect alignment, perhaps, but too close.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. Slowly, she stretched out her leg, her foot resting upon the front seat of the plastic chair.

A shallow breath escaped her lips.

Too damn close.

She didn’t want to be within reach of the patient . . . just in case. Her mind wandered back to this morning’s events.

The orderly.

The blood.

His eye.

She jumped to her feet again and proceeded to drag the plastic chair back a few inches. Then she returned to her own chair, lowering herself with more control this time.

She stared at the gap.

Now…

too far.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, fingertips pressed to her lips. Victor needed to see the experiment. To engage with it fully. Distance would dilute the effect.

With a frustrated breath, she rose once more, nudging the plastic chair slightly forward. A precise adjustment. Enough, she hoped, to balance visibility without risk.

And then . . . A knock.

Her throat tightened.

That will be Victor.

She turned toward the door, but her foot caught the metal leg of the plastic chair, sending it clattering to the floor with a harsh, scraping protest that echoed far louder than it should have.

“Please… do enter!” she called hastily over her shoulder, already lunging forward to retrieve the fallen chair. She dragged it upright, hands fumbling slightly as she repositioned it as quickly as possible.

The door swung open with institutional sharpness.

One of the orderlies entered first. Tall, stiff-backed, his movements clipped and efficient. Victor followed behind him, head craned low, hair falling like a curtain across his face. He did not raise his eyes. Not once. His gaze remained fixed on the floor, body curling slightly inward as though trying to fold himself out of existence.

The second orderly entered last, closing the door behind them with a solid, mechanical click.

“Dr. Malone,” the first orderly greeted with a nod, his tone polite but flat. His gaze swept the room with the dispassionate focus of someone checking items off a mental list, searching for risks, assessing threats. A pen. Scissors. Even a spoon. Any object small enough to disappear into a patient’s hand, sharp enough to reappear later in someone else’s skin.

The room offered nothing.

No comfort.

No weapons.

Nothing but the two chairs and the neatly aligned equipment on the desk.

His eyes settled on the plastic chair standing alone in the centre of the room. His mouth twitched slightly, as though considering something distasteful.

“Shall I go grab some extra chairs from one of the rec rooms?” he asked, glancing back toward the open hallway. “Or will this be… a short examination?”

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed, momentarily unsure of his meaning, until it dawned on her.

The orderlies expected to stay.

Her stomach sank.

No.

This would not do.

This would not do at all.

The integrity of the experiment hinged on isolation, on removing external influence. Even her own presence was a necessary contamination she had learned to manage through silence and distance. The idea of three observers . . . hovering, breathing, altering the air itself . . . was unthinkable.

Her jaw tightened.

A memory flickered . . . Mr. Omnia’s voice as he tried to ask questions about some of the ink-blot cards.

She exhaled sharply through her nose.

“No,” she declared, her voice clipped and cold. “No, that will not be necessary. You… cannot possibly remain in the room during the session. It would render the results entirely invalid.”

The two orderlies exchanged a glance . . . silent, weighted.

The first one spoke again, voice heavier now with something bordering on apology.

“Dr. Malone… I don’t know what arrangements you’ve made with Dr. Clark, but Victor must be accompanied by two Mental Health Technicians at all times when outside of his wing.”

He raised both hands slightly, palms open in a practised gesture of helplessness.

“I don’t make the rules.”

Elizabeth’s breath stuttered, her throat tightening with frustration. She had been so close.

The weight of it pressed down on her. Years of research, hours of preparation, all now slipping like water through her fingers.

She sank into her chair with a slow, controlled exhale and cupping her brow as though shielding herself from the world’s cruellest joke. Her fingers dug into her temples, massaging as if she could press the headache out through her skull.

“I had not…” she began, her voice brittle with defeat, “…I had not fully accounted for the level of security imposed on involuntary patients.”

She let the words hang, her tone dropping into something quieter, heavier.

“I appreciate your cooperation… both of you. And I regret wasting yours and Mr. Langley’s time.”

Her hands slid from her brow, folding tightly in her lap as she leaned back in her chair.

“But there is nothing more to be done. Please… return Mr Langley to his wing.”

One of the orderlies turned toward the door without another word, reaching for the handle.

But the other didn’t move.

He reached out, stopping his colleague with a hand to the arm. The two leaned together, their heads dipping low as the second began whispering, gritted teeth, jaw tight. The words were muffled, but the tension was unmistakable.

Elizabeth’s breath hitched.

Dr. Clark. Of course. The instruction had already been given. The communion was to proceed . . . no matter the cost.

The whispering orderly turned back toward her, his expression stiff with reluctant authority.

“We can…” He exhaled slowly, like air leaking from a punctured tire. “…we can cuff him to the chair.”

His eyes dropped to the cheap plastic seat at the centre of the room. His lip curled slightly, almost imperceptibly, as though the very suggestion tasted foul in his mouth.

“I’d feel a damn sight better,” he added under his breath, “if it were bolted to the floor.”

The second orderly stepped forward, voice tightening into something sharper, more mechanical.

“We could cuff his wrists to the frame,” he said, pointing toward the thin chrome bars that jutted awkwardly from either side of the chair’s seat. “And if we use chain alongside the ankle cuffs… we could pin his legs as well.”

He glanced between them, jaw flexing.

“The worst he could do is rock himself over… maybe roll around a little.”

Elizabeth felt the air drain from the room.

Her throat clenched, nausea curling deep in her stomach as she stared at the chair . . . really stared at it . . . picturing what they had described.

Her face twisted, horror tightening her features into something raw and sharp.

“No.”

Her voice cracked, quiet, but laced with steel.

“No. I will not turn this into a performance of cruelty. I will not reduce a man to an animal in a cage.”

She rose slowly to her feet, the back of her chair creaking as it scraped softly against the floor. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

“I will not.”

The realisation bloomed, sickening and slow, in the pit of her chest. She had known, of course, what went on in the far wings of the institute. But this… hearing it framed so plainly, so casually, felt like something colder. Something worse. And yet . . . it explained everything.

The violence. The rebellion. The inevitable maulings.

The orderlies exchanged another glance. One started to open his mouth, but stopped when he saw the look on her face.

Without another word, the first reached for Victor’s elbow, tightening his grip, turning him back toward the door.

And that should have been the end of it. But then . . . a voice.

So soft, so unexpectedly light, it barely reached her ears.

“M’am…”

Victor hadn’t moved. His head was still bowed, greasy hair hanging in front of his features like a waterfall. She couldn’t see his face. Couldn’t see his expression.

But the voice continued, with slight resistance, as though every word had to fight its way free.

“I… I don’t mind,” he said.

Still facing the floor.

Still hidden.

“I don’t mind if they tie me to that lil ol’ chair over there.”