Chapter Twenty-Seven
Quinn - Present Day
Approximately one week since admission
“Quinn! It’s time for your appointment with the doc.” Richard’s tone grates on me as his booming voice filters through the air. He, quite honestly, makes me sick.
I’ve been on the treadmill for the entire hour of today’s session.
Every day it’s the same thing. A routine made to break you.
There’s no water in the exercise area, just signs everywhere saying hydration is earned, but no fucking instructions on how to earn it.
My legs feel like they’re going to give up on me, my head is hazy, my brain hurts.
“Can I get some of my backup meds, please?”
“Patience. Just ask the doc when you see her.”
“I don’t know if I can walk to the doctor. I feel—” I slump on the floor and everything goes black.
The bitter smell of sweat enters my nose, and nausea swells in my body. My eyes flutter open, and my brain registers Richard bellowing in my ear.
“Wake up, Sweet Cheeks. WAKE UP! Places to go and people to see.”
The entire room is spinning. “Water. I need water.”
“Tough shit, big tits. I have a schedule to keep.”
Rhiannon is next to me, holding my hand. I watch her face as she contemplates saying something. I squeeze, and she looks at me as I subtly shake my head. Don’t. It’s not worth it.
Our friendship has developed over the last few days. Secret moments of confessions in the dark of the night. Constantly on alert in case someone discovers us. But we’ve bonded. We've become friends. And if anything, that’s one thing that makes this entire horrific process worth it.
“I’m telling you now, there is absolutely no chance of me getting up and walking to the doctor's office. I told you before I needed an aid. This is what happens without one when I’m forced to exercise for an hour.
I need water. Please.” Richard walks away and out of the gate, grumbling to himself.
Everyone else is standing staring, yet no one but Rhiannon bothers to check on me, despite the fact it could be seen as her communicating with me and breaking the rules.
A few minutes pass, and he comes back, throwing a bottle of water onto my stomach. I grunt as it hits me. My hands grab the bottle, and I rush to open it. As I gulp down the water, the nausea gets worse, and I projectile all over the ground.
“You can clean that up, you tramp!” he shouts at me as he moves towards a mop and bucket with a stack of towels next to it. “And be thankful I’ve given you a mop and not your toothbrush. Now, hurry the fuck up. The doctor does not like to be kept waiting.”
My vision has white spots as I try to adjust to my surroundings and move myself.
Rhiannon helps me to my feet and wrings out the mop before passing it to me, trying to make the job a little bit easier for me.
I clean up the mess I’ve made, trying not to pass out again, and put the mop back into the bucket.
“Happy now?”
“Deliriously! Now, come on.”
My feet feel like they’re made of concrete, my hips scream at me for every move I make, yet I follow him dutifully.
I cling to anything I can to steady myself, the thought of the possibility of more medication on the other end of the walk forces me on.
After what feels like hours, I’m back in the big house, standing in front of a door in a different hallway from the one from the first night, with a plaque on the door that says, Dr Stephanie Jones.
Apprehension runs through my veins. I don’t like surprises, and having no idea what’s on the other side of this door is stressing me out.
It’s not even the end of my first full week here, and already it feels like I’m wasting away.
Not literally—because I’m fat—but my will to live is treading a fine line between staying and leaving.
Dicky picks up his fist and knocks on the door.
There’s nothing for a few minutes, and then the door opens, and a box-dye blonde appears on the other side.
The only possible way to describe her is stunning.
You know when you see those doctors who are run down and can’t hack the pace, and then you see the others who look exemplary at any given opportunity?
Yeah, she is the latter. She looks like someone you could feel comfortable enough to confide in.
Someone you could trust to get you better.
But going on my previous experiences of judging people’s characters, I’m trying to reserve judgement and not make another fool of myself.
“Hi, I’m Dr Stephanie. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Quinn.”
“Hi. It’s nice to meet you too. I think.”
She gestures for me to walk into her office and closes the door in Dicky’s face, leaving him out in the hallway.
“It’s not the time for prying eyes and ears. He can wait outside.” She chuckles, winking at me, and I immediately relax. I lower myself gently into the chair, trying not to bring too much attention to the pain that I’m in.
“Are you in pain, Quinn? Do you need to top up your medication?”
“Yes. Please. I really do. I tried to explain to Dic—Richard—that my body doesn’t work like a ‘normal’ body and I couldn’t do an hour of exercise. He thought I was pulling a fast one until I collapsed outside.”
“You collapsed?” An emotion that to the untrained eye would look like rage crosses her face. But to me, someone who has learned to read people’s faces to avoid potential consequences, something doesn’t feel quite right. She storms to the door and pulls it open.
“You forced her to exercise for an hour, and then when she collapsed, you still made her come here without giving her any medication? What are you? A barbarian?” She screams in his face.
“But—”
“I don’t want to hear it, Richard, I’m very disappointed in your behaviour.” Before he can utter another word, she slams the door and stalks to her side of the desk. Maybe she is one of the good guys then.
“It seems you just can’t get the staff nowadays,” she says, and I laugh to myself as she pulls two vials and a syringe out of the filing cabinet.
“I have some fentanyl here. This should help ease it a little. Before I give it to you, though, we need to discuss your treatment plan while you are clear-headed. I know you are prescribed morphine on a daily basis, but the side effects from that, compared to what we distribute here, are two completely different things, and I want to make sure you are on board with what’s ahead. ”
“Okay. I won’t lie, I’m a little nervous. My mum rarely gives me an option, so I was under the impression I didn’t have a choice and that you would make the decisions regardless of what I want.”
“That’s not entirely true. Your mother does have power of attorney, but you can petition against that if you wish.
It just means that the time you spend here will be longer.
If that’s something you want to do, all treatment will cease, including the administration of your medication so as not to risk a lawsuit. ”
“So my options are to give you permission or suffer from the pain until I can fight the decision in court? Could I leave?”
“We would need a permanent address and someone capable of looking after you for that to happen, and it seems your parents no longer want you home. They’ve strictly forbidden us from contacting them at any point in regard to you unless it’s in the event of your death.”
“Sounds like a hell of a choice. Pick door one, and I suffer. Pick door two, and I suffer.”
“I can advise you on my suggested method of treatment for you, but I cannot force you. I will need you to sign some papers before treatment commences so that we can cover all of the legal mumbo jumbo and make sure we are both protected.”
“My mum told me you were going to give me ECT treatment.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“Scared. Based on previous experience, I tend to be an anomaly and achieve the rare side effects like I’m collecting Pokémon.”
She laughs to herself. Fine lines crease in the corners of her eyes when she smiles; her eyes sparkle, making me feel even more at ease.
“That’s to be expected. The horror stories you see and hear about this procedure online are not accurate, though. Very rarely does ECT go wrong. It’s a tried and tested method of treatment for people with mental health disorders.”
“Well, that’s the other thing. I’ve spent so much of my life exaggerating illnesses, making up symptoms, or bare-faced lying that I no longer know what diagnoses are true and what ones are not.”
“We in the professional field call that Munchausen's syndrome.”
“Munch, what?”
“Munchausen’s syndrome. It’s a factitious disorder where an individual will feign, induce or exaggerate illnesses in order to gain attention and sympathy.”
“And you think that’s what I have? You think I’m lying about it all?”
“I think that you believe that the things you say are wrong with you are wrong. And I believe that you believe that you are disabled and living a limited life. Like hearing the voices. I believe you think they are real. Same with the pain you experience. I know you had an accident, but I think you like the attention you get from people when they ask you about your health. I would go so far as to say you probably caused the accident yourself for that exact reason. From the information I’ve been given from your mother and brother, it seems like empathy and sympathy have become somewhat of an addiction to you. ”
The information she’s giving me rattles aimlessly around my brain. I have what? So, I’m not actually sick? If I’m not actually sick, why do I feel all the pain I feel? Why do I struggle to walk? Why am I unable to use my body as I would have before the accident?
“So, long story short, I’m fucked in the head, but there’s nothing physically wrong with me? You think I would deliberately walk in front of a car? For what? My mother’s love?”
“We don’t like to say those things here, Quinn. Munchausen’s is a mental health disorder. Hence your being admitted to Saving Hearts for treatment. We want you to get better. We want to be a stepping stone in that journey for you.”
“What causes it?”
“Emotional trauma, or illness during childhood, can be a trigger. Especially if you received prolonged medical treatment. I see you also have a diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder, which is also really common for sufferers of Munchausen’s.”
“Well, there’s definitely been a lot of trauma, but I can’t remember prolonged treatment other than after my accident.
Or my first suicide attempt. But I wasn’t treated nicely.
I don’t see how that would have resulted in me lying for attention.
I know my mother has always taken me to the doctors at the drop of a hat for any little instance. Everything was always an extreme.”
“Well, that’s different from the history your family has given me. But that’s what we’re here to figure out.”
“Why, what have they told you?”
“That information is confidential to avoid further instances of you fabricating your symptoms.”
“So, you’ve already made up your mind about me?”
“Not at all. I need to get to know you as a person, as a patient, and read through your medical records to see what matches and what doesn’t, and then we can move forward and get you into recovery.”
I slump back in my chair in defeat. What’s the point?
No one ever listens to me. They always want me to agree with what they say.
That there’s nothing wrong with me and it’s all in my head.
But it’s not. I live in my body all day every day.
I know how it feels. I know how my brain races.
I know how the voices in my head torture me, refusing to leave me alone.
*gasps* How can you say that? We just like to play with you, Quinny.
I shake my head from side to side with my hands over my ears.
“Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Leave me alone.” I rock in the chair, trying to grip onto some semblance of reality and not fall back into the black hole that steals time from me.
I grip my hair in my fists, pulling so hard I feel like the skin will slip from my scalp.
“I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS ANYMORE!”
“Quinn. Breathe.” She grabs my arms.
“No! Go away! No one listens to me. No one believes me! You all think I’m a liar!” Sobs wrack my body.
“Ok, Quinn, I think it’s time for some PRN medication to help you relax and calm that anxiety down. Richard!”
I don’t hear the door open or close. I vaguely hear voices. I feel a hand grab my arm, and I fight them off, only to be pinned to the chair. And with a prick of my skin and the sting of medication being flushed into my veins, I feel my muscles relax, and the voices around me become clearer.
“Take her to the treatment room,” Dr Stephanie says.
“But she’s out of it. She can’t consent. You told her you needed her to sign paperwork.”
“You should know by now, Richard, that I do what I have to do for my research. I don’t need her consent. I had to tell her that to make her feel comfortable.”
“But this can’t possibly be good for her.”
“So now you want to show concern? But earlier you were perving over her naked body and acting in a way no man should act towards a woman? Now you have morals?”
“And you do? Acting like a feminist and like you care about women, yet here you are about to fry the brain of one in the name of your research? I’m just saying, it could open us up to a load of trouble if we don’t have that paperwork signed beforehand.”
“So, then sign it,” she tells him.
“Why me?” he asks.
“I have more to lose than you do. Let’s not forget the footage I have of you, Rich. I’m sure your wife would like to see it.”
My brain is foggy, and it feels like the voices are miles away. The next thing I know, I’m being lifted onto a trolley of some kind and wheeled out of the office.
I try to open my eyes, but it’s like they’re stuck.
When they do open, it’s just a blur of lines, and then they close again.
Metal clangs around me as I come to a stop, and I feel my wrists and ankles being clamped into place.
I try to wriggle my arms, to move, but it’s like my brain can no longer signal to my body. Like I’m paralysed.
What the fuck did you give me?
Terror consumes me at the realisation that I’m stuck, deprived of my most important senses.
I can’t see. I can’t touch. I can barely hear.
I’m quite literally at the mercy of a woman I hardly know and a man who looks at me like I’m part of his survival kit.
I try to fight back, to scream, to shout, to do anything—but with another prick of my skin, the darkness comes to steal me away.