Chapter 11 Prisoner
[Freya]
The calmness that settled over me was strange and welcome. For the first time since finding Mom unconscious, I had a clear path forward. A solution that would fix everything.
Finally, I slipped out of bed and retrieved the small bottle of sleeping pills from my bag. With my plan firmly in place, I took the recommended dose and settled back into the comfortable mattress.
Within twenty minutes, the familiar chemical fog settled over my thoughts, and for once, I drifted off to truly peaceful sleep.
---
I woke to sunlight filtering through half-drawn curtains.
A knock at the bedroom door interrupted my thoughts. Two women entered—one in her fifties with steel-gray hair pulled into a severe bun, the other younger with sharp, assessing eyes.
"Good morning, Miss Harper," the older one said. "I'm Helen, and this is Rosalynn. Dr. Salvatore asked us to look after you while he's at the hospital."
"Look, why don't you two just stay in the other room? I can take care of myself, and I promise I won't tell Emerson that you weren't hovering over me the whole time."
Helen's expression didn't change. "Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes. There are fresh clothes in the bathroom."
They left before I could argue further. The clothes—simple lounge pants and a soft sweater—fit perfectly, making me wonder when Emerson had had time to arrange this.
The day passed in a strange, suspended state. Helen and Rosalynn moved efficiently around the apartment, cooking, cleaning, always keeping me in sight. I had to admit the food was incredible—somehow they'd prepared all my favorites.
Their constant staring eventually wore me down. "Could you at least stop watching me like I'm about to explode?" I asked, setting down my empty bowl. "It's creeping me out."
They exchanged a glance before Rosalynn nodded. "We'll compromise. We'll check on you every five minutes instead of continuous observation."
"How generous," I muttered as they retreated to the kitchen, only to peek around the corner exactly five minutes later with clockwork precision. I was a prisoner in a luxury cage with the world's most punctual guards.
Around mid-afternoon, Helen announced, "Miss Harper, your therapist is here for your session."
I sighed, setting down my book. I'd been dreading this ever since Emerson mentioned it yesterday, but I supposed there was no avoiding it.
"Fine," I said, straightening my clothes. "Send them in."
A young man walked into the room, carrying a simple leather portfolio. He had an easy smile and was dressed casually in jeans and a sweater rather than the formal attire I'd expected from a therapist.
"Hello, Freya," he said, settling into the chair across from me with practiced ease. "I'm Dr. Mark Bryant."
My jaw dropped. "You're the therapist Nancy tried to set me up with! I remember your messages."
Mark Bryant's eyebrows rose in surprise, then he chuckled softly. "Well, this is unexpected. Nancy gave me your contact information a few weeks ago, and I reached out. You were very polite in declining my services."
I stared at him in disbelief. "What are the odds? Emerson arranges a therapist for me, and it turns out to be you?"
"Apparently higher than we might have thought," Mark replied with a wry smile. "Though I have to say, this isn't exactly how I imagined we'd finally meet."
"She mentioned you'd experienced some trauma and were having trouble sleeping. Nothing more specific." Mark's voice was gentle, professional. "Why don't you tell me what's been going on?"
For the next hour, I found myself opening up in ways I hadn't expected. Mark had the rare gift of making you feel truly heard—he didn't rush me, didn't offer quick fixes, just listened with genuine compassion. I told him about my mother's death, the overwhelming stress, and the self-harm.
When the session ended, Mark's expression was grave as he closed his notebook.
"Freya, I'm going to be direct with you," he said, his voice gentle but serious. "Based on what you've shared today, I'm deeply concerned. The combination of severe depression, self-harm, and what appears to be complete loss of will to live... this requires immediate intervention."
He leaned forward slightly. "I'm recommending inpatient treatment. You need more support than outpatient therapy can provide right now."
My stomach dropped. "I can't do that. I have work, responsibilities—"
"Your life is more important than any job," Mark said firmly. "Freya, I don't think you understand how serious this is. Without proper treatment, I'm genuinely worried about your safety."
Just then, Emerson walked through the door carrying a bouquet of white lilies—my favorite flowers, though I'd never told him that. The gesture should have warmed me, but instead it felt like another chain.
"Dr. Salvatore," Mark stood up immediately, his expression unusually grave. "Could I speak with you privately? About Freya's treatment plan."
Emerson nodded, his eyes flicking between Mark and me with concern. "Of course. My study is just down the hall."
"These are beautiful," I said quietly to Emerson, accepting the flowers before he disappeared with Mark. "Thank you."
They vanished into the study, leaving me alone with the lilies. I could hear the low murmur of their voices through the closed door—Mark's measured tones and Emerson's occasional sharp interjections. Whatever they were discussing, it was serious.
I arranged the flowers in a vase Helen had provided, trying to ignore the knot of anxiety forming in my stomach. Through the study door, I caught fragments: "...severe risk..." "...complete ideation..." "...immediate intervention..."
Forty-five minutes later, Mark emerged alone, his face somber. He gathered his things quickly.
"Freya," he said, pausing at the door. "I'll see you next week. Until then, please take the medication I prescribed. It's important."
After he left, the apartment fell into an oppressive silence. I continued fussing with the flower arrangement, adjusting stems that didn't need adjusting, when Emerson finally emerged from the study. His face was pale, his usual composed demeanor cracked.
"The flowers really are lovely," I said, not looking at him. "White lilies were always my mother's favorite too." I touched one of the petals gently. "So when can I go home, Emerson? Now that I'm seeing a therapist, getting medication... surely I can return to my apartment soon?"
The silence stretched so long I finally looked up. Emerson stood frozen in the doorway, his hands clenched at his sides.
"Emerson?" I prompted. "When can I go back to my life?"
"Never."
The single word dropped like a stone into still water. I stared at him, the lily stem crushing between my fingers.
"What do you mean, never?"
His jaw worked silently before he spoke. "Dr. Bryant was very clear about your condition, Freya. You're not just depressed—you're actively suicidal. He said you have no will to live."