Subdue-X

Deterioration Of The Mind

I sat on the edge of the bed with a blank expression, not a single thought stirring in my mind. The weight of everything that had happened left me feeling hollow.

In the other room, I could hear their voices murmuring, fragmented pieces of conversation slipping in and out of my consciousness.

“It was the old Arena used decades ago for initiation…”

They were giving me space, a courtesy to dress myself, but my body didn't care about clothes. It didn't care about anything. My muscles were still sore, stiffened by the cold shock of the flood, and my skin ached from the abrasions. I stared at the black curtains that shielded the windows, heavy and oppressive. My fingers, still caked with dried mud, picked absently at my pajama bottoms.

Their conversation faded, and I felt eyes on me.

"...She hasn't moved since," Chris whispered, his voice tense, troubled.

I wanted to ask who he was speaking to. I didn’t recognize the man standing in the doorway, watching me with a quiet intensity. He was tall, at least six foot four, with a lanky frame. His short brown hair and black rectangular glasses gave him an awkward, scholarly look. His large hands were clasped in front of him, the thin blue shirt and matching scrubs he wore tucked beneath a lab coat that hung slightly wrinkled at the edges.

"Give me a moment with her... once she's decent?" the man asked, his voice soft but commanding.

"Please," Chris agreed, his shoulders sagging with relief.

The man left the vicinity, and I felt the room grow still. Chris lingered behind me, unsure, his presence heavy but quiet. The air between us was thick with unspoken words. The lamp on the bedside table cast a dim glow, reflecting off the glass door that led to the balcony.

I sat there with no top on, just the burgundy red silk pajama bottoms that clung to my legs. My hair, still damp from the flood, dripped slowly down my back, and I shivered as the chill from the wet strands soaked into my skin. The thought of water touching me again made my stomach twist violently. I could feel mud under my nails, the gritty sensation stuck in the crevices of my fingertips. My skin was raw, bruised, and battered from the ordeal. Every inch of me screamed for relief, but the idea of standing under a shower of water running down my body again, made me gag.

Chris climbed onto the bed behind me, careful, like he was approaching a wounded animal. His hand reached for my hair, gently pushing the wet strands away from my face with a sigh. I could feel his uncertainty, the way his fingers hovered, not knowing if he should comfort or retreat.

Without a word, he took my hand and led me to the washroom. The small glass shower sat in the corner, a heating lamp overhead casting a warm glow on the white towels and a clean set of soft grey cotton pajamas. He didn’t ask me to shower. He didn’t have to. He knew better.

The moment the water hit my back, the sobs broke out of me uncontrollably. I gasped for breath, choking on the weight of my tears until the sobs turned into dry heaving. I stumbled out of the shower, dropping to my knees over the toilet as my stomach twisted painfully. Chris knelt beside me, holding my hair back and squeezing the tight knot between my shoulder and neck. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

We tried again. It took three more attempts to get through the shower, each one broken by sobs and retching until, finally, the water rinsed the grime from my skin. Clean nails. Spotless hair. Sanitized wounds. He helped me slip into the soft pajamas, covering the scrapes and bruises with fabric that felt foreign and heavy against my aching skin. He guided me back to bed and placed the garbage can beside me, just in case the nausea returned.