Chapter 25
Corine
I can still feel the ache in my chest from the night before. My body is sore-like my soul fought a war and barely survived. The silence in the hallway feels heavier than usual, like it knows where I'm going, what's about to happen. There's a stillness in the air that creeps under my skin.
I walk beside Dr. Bennett, my feet dragging. She's quiet, her expression unreadable, but I can feel her eyes flick to me every few seconds, checking if I'm okay. I'm not. But I don't say anything.
I just nod when she opens the heavy door.
The room is sterile. Cold. It smells like antiseptic and something else I can't name-something electric. There's a small bed with crisp white sheets, machines humming softly in the background, wires already coiled and waiting. The sight of it makes my stomach lurch.
I pause in the doorway, swallowing hard.
"Corinne," Dr. Bennett says gently. "You don't have to be afraid. I'm here. You're safe."
Safe.
I step inside.
Dr. Michaels is already there, in his white coat, adjusting something on the monitor. He turns and gives me a small smile. "Good morning, Corinne. Just take a seat. We'll go slow."
Slow. I wish they knew that everything inside me is already moving too fast.
I sit on the bed, my fingers trembling. The nurse-Jessica, I think-comes in next. Her face is soft, practiced. She's done this before. I lie back on the bed as she begins placing sticky nodes on my chest, my forehead, and temples. Each one cold. Each one grounding me in the terrifying reality of where I am.
Dr. Michaels moves to the side, the machine now softly beeping beside me. "We're going to administer brief, controlled pulses of electricity," he explains. "It's called unilateral ECT, and we'll only stimulate one side of your brain today. The goal is to relieve the severe symptoms you've been experiencing."
I nod numbly. "Will I remember this?"
Dr. Bennett steps in. "You'll be under anesthesia. You won't feel anything during the session. And we'll monitor everything-your heart, your oxygen, your brain activity."
My throat is dry. "How many sessions will I need?"
"We'll start with a short course," Dr. Michaels replies, calmly professional. "Six treatments. Twice a week. Then we'll reevaluate."
I don't say anything. I just lie there, letting them prep me like I'm a machine they're about to reset.
The nurse places a small oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. "Just breathe normally," she says. "We're going to administer a muscle relaxant and anesthesia now."
A sharp prick at the crook of my elbow. The IV.
Within seconds, my limbs feel heavy. My jaw slackens. The edges of the room begin to blur.
And just before everything fades to black, I see Dr. Bennett lean over and whisper something I barely hear.
"You're doing the brave thing, Corinne."
Blackness.
Light.
I don't know how long it's been, but I'm not awake.
Not really.
I'm floating. Detached from everything. I can't move. My muscles feel like rubber bands-stretched, limp, sore. My mind is fogged, coated in a thick layer of confusion. My chest feels tight, like I've run a marathon underwater.
There's a dull ache in my head. Not sharp. Just... pressing. Like someone placed a weight on the side of my skull.
I blink slowly. Everything is blurry.
I hear voices-Dr. Michaels and someone else. Maybe Bennett. I can't turn my head. I can't speak. But I hear the words.
"She seized for about twenty-five seconds."
"Heart rate stable. No complications."
"Postictal response within normal range."
My brain tries to make sense of the words, but they fall apart before they reach meaning. I close my eyes again.
The next time I blink, I'm in the recovery room. A blanket is wrapped tightly around me, and the lights are dim. My mouth is dry. My tongue feels like paper. I try to sit up, but my body doesn't cooperate.
"Don't rush," a soft voice says beside me.
Dr. Bennett.
She's sitting in a chair next to the bed, a clipboard in her lap, but her eyes are on me. She looks tired. Concerned.
"How... long?" I manage to croak.
"About thirty minutes," she says. "You did well. You tolerated the procedure perfectly."
I let my head fall back against the pillow. "Feels... weird."
She nods. "That's normal. Some confusion. Headache. Muscle stiffness. We'll give you something for that."
I want to ask if this is going to work. If this pain, this darkness, is going to finally lift. But I don't ask.
Because I'm afraid the answer might be no.
Instead, I say the only thing I can.
"Did I scream?"
Her face softens. "No, Corinne. You didn't scream. You were unconscious the whole time."
But something inside me still feels like it did. Like some part of me screamed through the seizure-silent, unheard, but aching to be released.
I curl tighter under the blanket. My body's cold, and my chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with the procedure. Dr. Bennett doesn't say anything else. She just stays beside me, holding space for my quiet pain.
And maybe, for now, that's enough