Chapter 9 #2
“She’s in denial.” Dr. Thorne says quietly, the words barely carrying across the room. “It’s a classic response. Minimizing the situation to cope.”
I feel my jaw tighten.
“But with the overdose now documented,” he continues, “we can’t release her without some kind of follow-up plan.”
He glances briefly in my direction before lowering his voice again.
“I have a colleague.” He says. “Dr. Nathaniel Ashcroft. Psychiatrist.”
Maddie nods slowly.
“He’s running pro bono sessions for patients under twenty-five.” Dr. Thorne explains. “It’s part of a research project on youth mental health after trauma.”
He folds his arms lightly. “He provides counseling at no cost in exchange for anonymized data for the study.”
“No pressure.” He adds gently. “But it could be a softer entry point. Confidential. Flexible. You might try suggesting it to her.”
Maddie glances back toward the bed. Our eyes meet for half a second before she quickly looks away. Her face is tight with worry.
“Yeah.” She says quietly. “I’ll try.” She nods once. “Thank you, Doctor. For everything.”
Dr. Thorne pats her shoulder lightly before walking back toward the bed. By the time he reaches me again, the calm professional smile has returned to his face.
“Iris.” He says warmly.
“Think about what we discussed.”
His tone is gentle but firm. “No rush today. But there are options available to you. Rest for now. A nurse will be in soon to check your vitals.”
His hand pauses briefly on the door handle. “And if you need anything, just press the call button.”
The door closes softly behind him. The room suddenly feels heavier. Like the air is filled with expectations no one has said out loud.
Maddie returns a moment later and sits carefully on the edge of the hospital bed. Her hand finds mine again immediately, as if she’s afraid I might vanish if she lets go.
“Ree’s tough, huh?” She says softly.
Her voice carries a faint, sad smile. I recognize the words instantly. My own from earlier.
“But Dr. Thorne’s right.” She continues gently. “Therapy isn’t admitting defeat. It’s arming up.”
Her eyes search mine. “That video… the stalker… Ryan’s bullshit… That’s a lot for one person to carry.”
Her voice drops slightly. “And bottling it up led here.” She gestures lightly toward the IV line and hospital monitors. “To this bed.”
“What if we got ahead of it?” She asks quietly. “What if you talked it out with someone neutral?”
I slowly pull my hand away. Not roughly. But enough to create space between us.
The resistance rises quickly inside me, sharp and defensive. Because the idea of being that exposed, of laying every wound open to a stranger, terrifies me far more than the pills ever did.
“I said I’m fine, Mads.” My voice is calm, but firm. “Therapy means digging everything back up. My parents’ crash. Ryan’s abuse. Now this video.”
I shake my head. “Reliving all of it so some stranger can write notes in a file? No thanks.”
I fold my hands loosely in my lap. “I’ll journal or something.” A small shrug. “Or talk to you and Al. That’s enough.”
Maddie doesn’t move. She doesn’t argue right away either. She just watches me for a long moment. Then she leans forward slightly, her expression soft but stubborn.
“Journaling’s great.” She says gently. “But it’s not the same.
You need tools we can’t give you.” She taps the side of the hospital bed lightly.
“Coping strategies. Boundaries. Dr. Ashcroft is free. No insurance hoops. Yeah, it’s technically for research, but he helps people like us.
” She holds my gaze steadily. “Under twenty-five. No pressure.”
A small hopeful smile touches her lips. “What if it’s just one session? A test drive. For me?”
The door opens again before I can argue, and Al bursts in, his hair disheveled like he ran from the car park, eyes wild with worry as he scans me head to toe.
"Ree! Holy shit, you're okay." He says, crossing the room in three strides to envelop me in a careful hug, his arms strong but trembling.
“Maddie texted.” Al says breathlessly as he steps inside. His hair is windblown, jacket half-zipped like he threw it on mid-run.
“I broke every speed limit getting here.” His eyes immediately find mine in the hospital bed. “What the hell happened?”
He gestures helplessly between Maddie and me. “One minute you’re crashing at her place, next I get a message saying you’re in the hospital?”
Maddie stands to give him space as he moves closer, her composure wavering despite the brave face she’s been wearing.
“It was after the Dean’s office.” She explains quietly. Her voice stays steady, but I can see the tears threatening again. “She locked herself in my bathroom.”
Al’s expression darkens immediately.
“She took my lorazepam.” Maddie continues. “Half the bottle. She’s stable now.” Maddie adds quickly. “The doctors handled it in time.”
She glances briefly toward the empty doorway. “But the doctor says therapy is mandatory before discharge. Some psychiatrist doing a free program.” She continues. “Part of a research project.”
Her eyes flick to me. “She’s fighting it.”
Al steps closer to the bed. Before I can react, his arms wrap around me in a tight hug that presses the hospital gown awkwardly against the IV line.
“Jesus, Ree.” He murmurs. “Don’t ever scare us like that again.”
He pulls back after a second and settles onto the edge of the bed on my other side. His hand slides over mine, warm and steady. The simple contact sends a fresh wave of tears to my eyes. His concern feels like sunlight after a storm.
“Therapy?” He says after a moment. “Honestly? Smart call.” There’s no judgment in his voice. Just quiet support.
“Ree, listen.” He leans back slightly, his tone softening. “I’ve been there. After my parents split last year.” He continues. “It felt like the world had its boot on my neck.”
He glances down at his hands briefly. “Everything I made, every sculpture, came out angry.”
A faint smile touches his mouth. “One session with a counselor flipped something for me. He didn’t fix everything.” Al says. “But he gave me words for the mess in my head.”
He shrugs lightly. “Not magic. But breathing room. You should at least try it.”
I look between them. Maddie’s hopeful expression. Al’s steady calm. A united front of love and worry.
The resistance inside me finally starts to crack under the weight of their concern. And honestly… I’m too exhausted to keep fighting.
“You two are relentless.” I mutter.
A weak, watery laugh escapes me despite everything. “Fine. One session.” I say firmly. “For you. Both of you.” I raise a finger. “But if it’s weird… We bail. Deal?”
Maddie practically lights up. Relief floods across her face as she lunges forward and wraps me in another hug.
“Deal.” She says quickly. “You’re a badass for even saying yes.” She pulls back, already reaching for her phone. “We’ll book it today. Dr. Ashcroft, right?”
Then she looks back at me, determination burning through her earlier fear. “This is step one, Ree. Kicking ass starts here.”
Al nods, squeezing my hand. "Proud of you. And when you're out, my studio's open. Smash some clay. Therapeutic as hell."
The rest of the day blurs, nurse checks, bland Jell-O that sticks to my teeth, Maddie's endless chatter about bad hospital TV to distract me. But underneath, a quiet resolve simmers, fragile but real, because their faith in me feels like a rope tossed into the dark.
By the next day, discharge papers in hand with the clinic address scribbled on the back, I agree to the appointment. Tomorrow. One step. That's all it has to be.
~
Now, standing in front of the clinic door, the signboard stares back at me like a challenge. "Dr. Nathaniel Ashcroft. MBBS, MRCPsych. NHS & Private Patients Welcome. Consultant Psychiatrist. Mental Health Support."
My fingers twist the strap of my bag, heart hammering with a mix of dread and defiance because part of me screams to turn back, run to Maddie's, bury under blankets and bad movies, but the other part, the one that woke up alive in that hospital bed, whispers forward. Therapy. Admitting I need help.
It's terrifying, like handing over shards of myself to a stranger, but Al's words echo, ‘Breathing room.’ And Maddie's fierce ‘For me?’ seals it.
I gather the courage, squaring my shoulders against the flutter in my chest, and push the door open, the chime tinkling soft like a hesitant invitation.
The reception area smells faintly of chamomile tea, but I barely notice, my focus on the woman behind the desk, mid-forties, glasses perched on her nose, a nameplate reading "Olivia." She looks up with a warm smile that eases the knot in my stomach just a fraction.
"Good morning," she says, her voice friendly and efficient. "Appointment or walk-in? How can I help?"
I step forward, throat tight but words steady. "Hi. I'm Iris Whitlock. Dr. Thorne from St. Mary's Hospital sent me, said Dr. Ashcroft does free sessions for under-25s, the research program. I... I need to talk to someone. Today, if possible."
Olivia nods, typing quickly on her keyboard, her expression shifting to understanding without pity, which makes me exhale a little.
“Of course, Iris. Dr. Thorne mentioned you might come. Good man, always referring folks our way.” She glances at the screen again. “Ah, yes! There’s already an appointment under your name.”
A few more clicks, then she smiles wider. “Lucky timing. He’s with a patient now, but you’re next. About ten minutes.”
“Take a seat, fill this out if you like." She slides a clipboard across, basic intake form gleaming under the light, name, age, reason for visit. Simple. Deceptively so.
"Thanks." I murmur, taking the form and settling into a cushioned chair in the waiting area, the pen trembling slightly in my grip.
Name? Iris Mae Whitlock. Age? 23. Reason for visit? Overdose attempt. Trauma. Betrayal. The words blur as I scribble, emotion welling up because writing it makes it real, a confession on paper.
But before I can dwell, the TV mounted on the wall flickers to life with a news segment, the volume low but insistent, drawing my eye despite myself.
The reporter stands outside a cordoned-off flat building, her face grave under the midday sun, microphone clutched like a lifeline.
‘In a shocking turn for our quiet suburb,’ she says, voice steady but laced with urgency, ‘authorities are still piecing together the brutal murder of Ethan Scott, a 32-year-old grocery cashier with no known enemies.
Neighbors describe him as unassuming, a man who kept to himself after a messy divorce two years back.
No fights, no feuds, just long shifts and late nights at the corner bar.
Yet last night, police discovered his body in his own flat, mutilated in a way that's left even seasoned detectives reeling.’
My pen pauses mid-word, attention snared despite the knot of anxiety in my chest, because something about the name, Ethan Scott, tugs faint, like a half-remembered face from the supermarket checkout.
Across the room, Olivia glances up at the screen, her brow tightening. “God.” She mutters under her breath. She reaches for the remote on the reception desk.
“Sorry.” She says lightly. “No one wants to watch that while they’re waiting.”
Her thumb hovers over the button.
“Wait.” I blurt before I can stop myself.
Olivia pauses, looking at me.
“Just… leave it.” I say, my voice quieter now, eyes fixed on the screen.
She hesitates, then lowers the remote.
The screen cuts to crime scene photos, blurred for broadcast but graphic enough to turn my stomach, restraints on a chair, shallow cuts tracing arms and torso, blood pooling dark and accusing. Mutilated.
The word echoes, horror mingling with a morbid pull as one image flashes. Something specific, a mark on the skin that catches my eye, blunt and deliberate, like a signature carved in flesh.
My breath hitches, pulse quickening because it feels too patterned, stirring unease that's not just from the news.
The reporter continues, her tone dropping sympathetic.
‘Forensic teams confirm torture preceded death with multiple lacerations, signs of prolonged restraint.
Scott's ex-wife called him 'harmless, just tired of life.
' Police urge tips, no suspects yet. A community in shock grapples with why an ordinary man met such an extraordinary end.’
"Miss Iris?" Olivia's voice cuts through, gentle but firm, clipboard in hand.
I jolt, dropping the pen as my name echoes, the news fading to background hum. She's smiling still, gesturing toward the inner door.
"Dr. Ashcroft will see you now. Right this way."