Page 56 of Echoes From the Void
Compassion.
“I need privacy for this examination,” Dr. Chen says, his tone carrying an authority I’ve never heard staff use with Valerie before. There’s something else in his voice too—a careful tension that makes me pay attention despite the drugs. “The compatibility tests are delicate. Any... external energy could interfere with the readings.”
Valerie’s fingers dig into my shoulder, a warning disguised as affection. “I prefer to supervise all examinations of my special cases, Doctor.” Her emphasis on ‘special’ makes bile rise in my throat. I know what happens to her special cases.
“And I prefer to conduct medical examinations without administrative oversight.” He meets her gaze steadily, his stance reminding me of how I used to face down bullies before this place broke me. “Unless you’d like to explain to the board why you’re violating patient privacy protocols?”
A tense silence follows. I hold my breath, waiting for Valerie’s usual explosion of temper. Five years have taught meexactly what happens when someone challenges her authority. But something in Dr. Chen’s stance makes her pause.
“Fine,” she says finally, each word precise and cold as a scalpel. “You have thirty minutes. I want a full report on my desk by end of day.”
“Of course.”
Her heels click sharply as she leaves, the sound echoing down the hallway like a countdown. Dr. Chen waits, counting under his breath, before moving to the monitoring equipment with deliberate purpose.
Without a word, he begins disconnecting wires, his movements quick and practiced like he’s done this before. When he reaches for my IV, his hands are gentle but urgent. Not the clinical touch I’m used to, but something almost... human.
I should feel afraid. Should question why this stranger is freeing me from the machines that have been my constant companions for five years. But something in his careful efficiency feels like the first real kindness I’ve known in this place.
“We need to move you to my office,” Dr. Chen says, already preparing a wheelchair. His movements are purposeful but not rushed—nothing that would draw attention. “These machines aren’t calibrated correctly for the tests I need to run.”
First floor. The words make bile rise in my throat. My hands start to shake as memories flood back—the ballroom, the men in expensive suits, Valerie’s voice commanding me to dance. To perform. To prove I could be... entertaining. To show my potential as a vessel.
“No,” I try to say, but my voice comes out as barely a whisper. Five years of saying no, of watching it mean nothing.
“It won’t take long,” he continues, his movements efficient but not cruel as he helps me sit up. My legs won’t hold myweight—they never do anymore. Another of Valerie’s control methods. “Just a few basic tests.”
That’s what they always say. Just a few tests. Just a little dance. Just be good and it won’t hurt this time. Just...
He must feel me trembling as he lifts me into the wheelchair because he pauses. For a moment, his professional mask slips, showing something that looks almost like grief. Like rage carefully contained.
But then it’s gone, replaced by brisk efficiency as he drapes a blanket over my legs. Not the thin asylum ones—this one is thick, warm. Real. The kind of comfort Valerie would never allow.
“Standard procedure,” he says loudly as we pass the nurses’ station, his voice carrying just the right amount of bored authority. “Compatibility testing requires specific equipment.”
I close my eyes as the elevator descends, fighting nausea that’s not just from the drugs. Memories of the last time I was downstairs threaten to overwhelm me. The music. The watching eyes. The way Valerie smiled as she showed me off like a prize animal.
The elevator doors open, but we don’t turn toward the ballroom.
We pass the ballroom doors—my heart hammering with each click of the wheelchair’s wheels against tile—but Dr. Chen doesn’t slow. Doesn’t even glance at them. Instead, he turns down a corridor I’ve never seen, one that smells of antiseptic instead of expensive cologne and fear.
His office, when we reach it, isn’t what I expect. No observation windows. No restraints disguised as medical equipment. Just a simple desk, filing cabinets, and an examination table that looks... normal. Almost like this could be any doctor’s office anywhere else in the world.
He locks the door.
My breath catches. This is usually when the pretense drops, when they show their true intentions. I curl in on myself as much as my weakened body allows, waiting for the inevitable. Five years of lessons about trust and betrayal rising up to choke me.
But Dr. Chen moves to his desk instead of toward me. Opens a drawer. Pulls out...
A sandwich.
“Eat,” he says quietly, placing it in my lap. Real bread. Real meat. Not the carefully measured nutrient paste they feed us upstairs to keep us dependent. “Quickly. We don’t have much time.”
I stare at it, uncomprehending. Five years of conditioning scream that this is a trick. Another test. Another way to prove how broken I am, how much I need Valerie’s guidance.
“Francesca,” his voice is soft but urgent. “I know you have no reason to trust me. But right now, you need to eat. And then we need to get you out of here.”
The sandwich shakes in my trembling hands. Real food. Real kindness. Both seem impossible in this place.
