I lie on the bed for a long time. I told her I broke a man's wrist and she didn't blink. I told her what the scream sounded like and her pen didn't stop.
Either she's the best actress I've ever encountered, or something in her is built different. She has no fear response.
By the third session, I push harder.
The fog has burned off by the time she comes in. My hands close on command. My head is clear. She might be faking but I want to be sure.
She sits and clicks her pen.
"Morning, Mr. Chadwick. Can you tell me if anyone's explained the rationale behind your current medication to you? Whether it's been reviewed?"
"Call me Jude. No one's explained anything. They don't need to. I know why they sedate me."
"Why's that?"
"Because they're scared of what will happen if they don't."
"Has the dosage changed since you arrived at Greenridge?"
"Yes. It always goes up. It takes me longer to recover each time."
"And no one's discussed that with you. No clinical review, no consent process."
I laugh, a bitter laugh. "No. I don't think they much care about my consent."
"Okay." She makes a note.
She is so fucking calm. Every word out of her mouth sounds the same. Calm and steady. I've watched guards stammer through their briefings about me. I've watched Kennedy fidget with his pen every time I look at him, that nervous clicking that tells me exactly how much I unsettle him. This woman takes everything I give her and asks the next question.
"You've read my file."
She looks up from the clipboard. "I have."
"Then you know what I did to all the men I killed, all eighteen of them." I sit forward, elbows on my knees. "What the file doesn't say is that I sat across from every one of them first. Just like this. Had a little conversation. They were comfortable. Relaxed. They thought they were safe."
She doesn't look down at the page.
"The last psychologist they sent in here lasted ten seconds before he asked to leave. The one before him made it through one session and put in a transfer request the same afternoon. The one before her stopped coming and nobody replaced her for six months." I drop my voice. "I haven't decided what I want to do about you yet."
She holds my gaze for a beat.
"Noted." She glances down at her clipboard. "Can you describe what the punitive dose feels like? The one they gave you after the incident with Officer Ryan?"
I just told her I killed eighteen men. That I haven't decided what to do about her. And she moved on to her next question.
I tell her. The lag between intention and hand. The aluminum taste. The ceiling smearing. She nods, asks whether the sedation produces the same symptoms or different ones. I tell her that too.
I'm talking more than I meant to. That hasn't happened in years.
"Thank you," she says when I finish. "No one's told me what the sedation actually feels like before. That helps."
She stands. Pauses at the door.
"The toast suggestion still stands. Tomorrow they're doing scrambled eggs and last time I saw them they looked like they'd been through a war."
She leaves.
I sit on the bed and replay it. Four sessions now. Everyone I've ever sat across from is terrified of me, for good reason. But she isn't.
