They’ve been careful for a long time.

Not gentle. Careful. There’s a difference. Gentle is for comfort. Careful is for containment.

They know me now. They know which conditions keep the body from escalating. They know where everything must be placed so nothing can be reached without permission. They do not rush. They do not argue. They do not ask questions anymore.

They speak past me when they speak at all.

Their voices aim inward, toward something they believe is listening beneath me. They use a tone meant to soothe, to reassure, to invite cooperation. They say names. They say reminders. They say this will help, that it will be over soon, that staying calm matters.

I stay very still.

Stillness makes them hopeful.

Sometimes the one beneath me stirs. Not often. It has learned what happens when it does. When it tries to surface, it does not come through words. Words belong to me. It presses instead. Scratches. Sends signals through skin, breath, and muscle.

The careful people notice. They always do.

Hands move closer. Straps are checked. Notes are made. Someone says it’s all right. Someone else says it is almost time. Their concern sharpens, narrows, becomes logistical.

What might be felt no longer guides what happens next. Only what might move out of place does.

I hold.

I have learned patience.

The door opens without ceremony. No announcement. No warning. Just the soft interruption of motion where there was none. Two men enter, dressed plainly in dark clothing. Clean lines. Nothing theatrical. They could be anyone if you didn’t know what to look for.

I know.

The air shifts around them. The careful people step back. Not far. Just enough. Authority changes hands without discussion.

They take positions. One near the head. One where the body cannot see plainly without turning. They do not touch. Not yet.

The first looks past its face. At me.

“You’ve been here long enough,” he says.

I laugh softly. Not aloud. There’s no need to waste breath.

“Worm,” I spit. “Pawn.”

The words come easily. They always do at first.

They do not react. They speak to the one beneath me again. They say it is not alone. They say it is strong. They say it should listen.

The other opens a book.

The atmosphere changes when the words begin. Not because of the sound, but because of the order. Something more ancient than either of us recognizes the language as law.

The one beneath me thrashes.

I tighten.

The words continue. Not louder. Not faster. Measured. Placed. They aren’t shouted. They aren’t dramatic. They close doors.

I curse them. Loud now. Vicious. Every name that reduces. Every insult that strips. Servant. Fool. Weakling. Worm.

My sound doesn’t frighten them.

The body convulses. Strains. Bites down hard enough to draw blood. They do not stop. They do not hurry.

The words loop. Begin again. Change slightly. Return.

Time stretches. Contracts. Breaks. I lose track of how many times they return, only that each pass leaves less ground.

The one beneath me screams without sound. It scratches. It begs. It tries to surface one last time.

There’s nowhere left to go.

Something gives way. Not flesh. Not will.
What remains is standing.

The body slips from my grasp in increments. Breath returns where I held it. Sound reorganizes itself without my permission. Hands are there immediately, steady and practiced, working to preserve what I can no longer reach.

The words continue. Not louder. Not faster. Just closer together. Closing ranks.

I try to answer, but I find no surface to push against.

There was no warning. I am torn loose.

The last thing that breaks is not my hold. It is my relevance.

For the first time, the voice is aimed at me. Not with anger.
Not with threat.

With finality.

“In the name of the father, you are undone.”

Something strikes the body’s face.

Not force. Not impact.

Violation.

It burns where I am, not where the body is. The reaction is immediate and uncontrollable. I recoil inside a frame that no longer answers to me. The sound that comes out isn’t language. It isn’t even pain.

It is loss. There is no argument left to make. No place left to stand.

The pressure collapses inward, not driving me out, but collapsing the space I occupied until there is nothing shaped like me left to resist.

The corporeal structure remains.

The place does not.

There is nothing left of me to remove.

© 2026 Tam Crowe