Disclaimer: I own you.

Control

You are never strapped down. You are never sleeping, paralyzed, or otherwise prevented from moving. When he enters the room there is no awe, no sense of inferiority or terror. He's a man of average height, too skinny, wearing a suit. Like doctors should. You'd been waiting to be treated and maybe felt a little anxious regarding what to expect—fear of the unknown, as he so kindly informs you later—but that diminished upon meeting. Maybe it's the sort of face people find attractive, maybe it's not, but that holds no relevance here.

This man is a doctor. This man is a scientist. This man with his rimless glasses and professional smile (doesn't reach his eyes, windows to the soul snapped shut) doesn't seem to care much about anything and you find yourself doubting he'll help.

But surely he knows what he's doing.

You answer his questions honestly, to the best of your ability. You explain hopes, dreams, fears, internalizations and speculations as the pen scribbles and lips purse in consideration. You try to ignore how those little twitches bother you. Muscles in his hands, legs, and face contract periodically. Like spasms of laughter barely contained at your expense. It causes hesitation, which he picks up on. Bemused or amused his mouth tightens once more.

"Could you stop that?"

He cocks his head, remarkably avian and no less upsetting. "What is it?"

And during your explanation his entire body grows tense—coiled serpentine full of poison and hungry. It surprises you that he isn't baring teeth.

"You know, I was worried this might happen." Nothing about Dr. Crane looks worried. "A side effect of your current medication—I've brought something that may, mm, help you adjust."

He leaves his face bare for the injection and it melts. You can see his tongue wriggling between the holes and bubbles that appear as flesh oozes off bone. Muscles and veins fan out like hair in liquid something, vanishing beneath the surface. Irises run down his chin reminiscent of broken eggs. Blue.

When you don't move he puts metal hooks in either ear, drawing blood before moving a leech bigger than any you'd ever seen towards your chest. It writhes, segments dark brown and facelessly hungry like whoever holds it.

Your own screaming is metal on metal—car crash, train wreck, smoke and oil. Fingernails erupt from his mouth to tear a hole. It is a wet, sucking noise.

"What do you see?"


Author's Note: I SO need to get in the habit of writing again. Decided to slip out a horror fic because I'm overdue. It was nice. :-P Aside, I'm seriously considering throwing a Sherry Squires-centric writing contest this summer if there's interest. I've got more info in the news section of my profile, but please let me know how you feel via poll. That way I'll know whether it's actually worth planning stuff out or not.