14 – Dr. Weiss
DR. WEISS
Day Eight
I step into the cabin’s official session room and flick on the lights. No matter how many times I come here, the setup still catches me off guard.
It feels like the room is watching me, not the other way around.
The far wall is all-glass from floor to ceiling, offering a view of the thick woods beyond. Today, rain slides down the panels in slow, silvery streaks.
Behind me, the opposite wall is mirrored, forcing the patient to face herself… whether she wants to or not.
Today is Isolation Session one of twenty, and somehow I’ll have to fit these in with far less time. Each one will peel Sadie open—layer by delicate layer—until I reach the part my colleagues pretend to fear: the experimental stage.
I’ve read their critiques, their snide footnotes and “urgent” warnings in medical journals. They love to use phrases like ethically ambiguous , borderline inhumane , gross misuse of pharmacological aids —specifically my use of hypnosis and truth serum. But I’ve stopped caring what they think.
They write papers.
I deliver results.
I have a one-hundred percent success rate.
They don’t.
Case closed.
Tch. Tch. Tchchch…
Sadie’s bare footsteps tap softly down the hall. A few seconds later, she slips inside the room.
She’s wearing an oversized T-shirt that hits just below the curve of her thighs, and for a fleeting moment, I wonder if she’s wearing anything beneath it. Her hair is twisted into a messy knot at the top of her head—the kind that begs to be undone with a single tug.
“Um… Is there a chair for me, Dr. Weiss?” she asks.
“Not for this session,” I say. “I’m the only one who gets to sit today.”
She arches a brow, ready to challenge me—but she thinks better of it and swallows her words.
“Did you sleep better without the wrist restraints last night, Miss Pretty?” I ask.
“I’m glad you took them off me.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
She hesitates, glances up at a tiny camera. “Yes. I slept better without them.”
“Good. Will I have a chance to go outside while I’m here?”
“Only if you’re ready for the guards to shoot you on sight,” I say plainly. “One patient—ever—was granted outdoor privileges.”
“What did he do to deserve that?”
“He answered every question I asked, and he didn’t throw tantrums when he didn’t get his way.”
She nods slowly. “So everything here is built around rewards and punishments…”
I pause—not because I’m surprised, but because I wasn’t expecting her to see it so clearly this early.
“Now,” I say, “stand right there. Don’t speak until I tell you to. When it’s time for questions, you’ll answer them.”
I lean back in my chair and pretend to take clinical notes. Instead, I write:
I want to devour your pussy.
You’re fucking beautiful.
I want to hear what my name sounds like when I’m buried deep inside you…
I stare at the words for a moment too long, then press the pen down hard, dragging a thick line through every sentence. My throat tightens—not with regret, exactly, but with restraint.
I doodle a caterpillar over the mess. Then a few crooked pine trees for camouflage. I close the notebook halfway and tap it against my knee.
Twenty minutes pass.
Then forty.
Sadie doesn’t move. She stands perfectly still, only blinking when her stare lingers too long. Occasionally, she glances at her reflection in the mirrored wall behind me. At one point, I catch her watching me watching her , both of us flickering in silver.
She shows no rage, and she doesn’t mumble a single complaint. She only reveals a quiet, confused vulnerability. Or maybe it’s curiosity.
At the one-hour mark, she shoots me a pleading glance—silent but clear: Can I sit now? I shake my head.
I need to see how she handles discomfort, how long it takes for her to splinter the silence and turn the mirror on me.
I decide to make it another hour.
No… Let’s make it two.