Chapter 2 Paper Gown, No Name
"Previous suicide attempts?"
Seraphina's head snaps up. The fluorescent lights stab through the lingering fog of whatever they gave her. Three hours in the car? Four? Time dissolved somewhere between her father's house and this windowless room that smells like industrial cleaner and someone else's fear.
"I've never…"
"Yes or no, please." The nurse doesn't look up. Clipboard. Pen. Checkbox efficiency. Her name tag says Karen but her face says she stopped caring what anyone's story was about a thousand intake forms ago.
"No."
Click. Mark. Next question.
"Self-harm behaviors? Cutting, burning, head banging…"
"I don't…no." Seraphina pulls the paper gown tighter. They took her clothes. Said it was a procedure. Said everything was procedure. The gown crinkles loudly in the silence. Sounds like her dignity is disintegrating. "I need to make a phone call. I have rights."
"History of delusions or paranoid ideation?"
"Are you listening to me?"
"The sooner we complete intake, the sooner you can rest." Karen flips a page. Still not looking. Maybe that's policy too. Don't make eye contact. Don't see them as human. Just symptoms to catalogue. "Delusions…yes or no?"
"This is insane." Seraphina laughs. Hear how it sounds. Unhinged. Perfect. "You're asking me if I'm delusional while you're…while my family just…"
Click. Mark.
She must have checked yes. Of course she did. Everything Seraphina says will be yes. Every protest is evidence. Every truth is a symptom.
"Paranoid thoughts about family members?"
Breathe. Think. This is a trap with no right answer. Deny it and she's uncooperative. Confirm it and she's validating their narrative. The walls aren't closing in, they were never apart to begin with.
"My stepmother is having an affair with my fiancé." Slow. Measured. The voice she used for thesis presentations. Rational. Calm. "I caught them. That's why I'm here. Not because I'm sick…because the truth was inconvenient."
Karen writes for a long time. Seraphina can't see what. Just the scratch of a pen on paper. Documenting. Categorizing. Translating reality into pathology.
"And you believe this affair is... ongoing?"
"I know it is."
"How do you know?"
Because I saw. Because Marcus's shirt was unbuttoned and Vivienne's lipstick was smeared and they looked at me like I was the intruder. Because my father chose to destroy me rather than face scandal.
"I saw them together."
"Where?"
"The guest house."
"When?"
"Yesterday. Or…" Wait. How long was she unconscious? What day is it? "Two days ago? I don't…they drugged me, I can't…"
"So you're uncertain about the timeline."
It's not a question.
Click. Mark. Check.
"Have you experienced visual hallucinations before?"
"I didn't hallucinate anything."
"Auditory hallucinations? Voices telling you things that others can't hear?"
"No." Her hands are shaking. Pressed between her knees but still shaking. The paper gown does nothing against the cold. Or maybe the cold is coming from inside. "Please. Just…can I speak to whoever's in charge? A supervisor, a…"
"I am the supervisor on duty." Karen flips another page. "History of substance abuse?"
"No."
"Alcohol consumption? How many drinks per week?"
"I don't know. Three? Four? I'm twenty-three, I go to…I went to…" Past tense. Already past tense. "Social drinking. Normal amounts."
"Define normal."
"Whatever isn't this?" Seraphina stands. The paper gown tears slightly. Cheap. Designed to disintegrate. Like everything else here. "I want a lawyer. I want to see the court order. I want…"
"Please sit down, Seraphina."
"Ms. Vale."
"Your family requested we use your first name. They felt it would be more comfortable…"
"My family." The laugh comes out jagged. Wrong. "My family is why I'm here. And you're asking me how many drinks I have per week like that matters. Like any of this…"
"Oppositional behavior." Karen makes another note. Doesn't look up. Never looks up. "Hostile affect. Elevated stress response."
"You'd be stressed too if…"
"Have you been diagnosed with any personality disorders?"
The question lands like a slap. Seraphina sits. Not because she's told to. Because her legs won't hold her anymore. They're building something here. A file. A story. A version of her that doesn't exist but will be the only version that matters.
"No."
"Bipolar disorder? Borderline personality? Narcissistic…"
"No. None of that. I'm…" What? Sane? Normal? Those words mean nothing here. "I have a degree in international relations from Georgetown. I volunteer at a literacy nonprofit. I've never been hospitalized, never been arrested, never…I'm not whoever you think I am."
"I don't think anything." Karen finally looks up. Her eyes are tired. Empty. "I'm just collecting information."
"For who?"
"Your treatment team."
"What treatment? I don't need…" But she hears it. The whine is creeping into her voice. The desperation that proves every box Karen's checking. She sounds crazy. She sounds exactly like someone who belongs here. "Please. Just tell me what's happening. Where am I? How long…"
"You're at Willowbrook Psychiatric Wellness Center." Rehearsed. Scripted. "A private facility specializing in acute mental health crises. You were admitted on a seventy-two-hour hold…"
"My father said seventy-two hours."
"...which can be extended if clinically indicated."
The air goes thin.
"Extended."
"With proper documentation, yes."
"For how long?"
"That depends on your treatment response."
Translation: as long as they want. As long as someone keeps signing papers. As long as Seraphina stays inconvenient.
The door opens. A man in a white coat enters. Doctor Something. She doesn't catch his name. Doesn't matter. He has the same eyes as Karen. Professionally blank. He picks up the clipboard. Scans it. Nods.
"Classic presentation." He's talking to Karen like Seraphina isn't three feet away. "Persecution complex. Family-directed paranoia. The affair delusion is a new wrinkle but fits the pattern."
"I'm right here." Her voice sounds far away. Small. "I can hear you."
"How are you feeling, Seraphina?" He sits. Crosses his legs. Mr. Rogers' energy. Gentle. Patronizing. "I know this is frightening."
"You know nothing about…"
"Your father mentioned you've been under significant stress. Wedding planning. His campaign. Unresolved grief about your mother…"
"Don't."
"...and now these elaborate stories about your stepmother. It's a lot for anyone to carry."
"They're not stories."
"I'm sure they feel very real to you."
The phrasing. So careful. So deliberately condescending. They feel real. Not that they are real. Because what Seraphina experiences isn't the truth, it's just a feeling. Perception. Unreliable narrator of her own life.
"I saw them." But she's said it too many times now. It's lost weight. Become rote. "I know what I saw."
"Memory can be tricky." He leans forward. Concerned. Kind. "Especially when we're under stress. The mind protects itself by creating narratives that make sense of our pain…"
"Stop."
"...even when those narratives aren't based in…"
"Stop talking to me like I'm a child." Seraphina's on her feet again. The gown tears more. She doesn't care. Let it fall. Let them see how much they've already stripped away. "I'm not delusional. I'm not paranoid. I'm trapped in a system that's designed to gaslight me into compliance, and you're…you're just…"
"Agitation." He makes a note. "Inability to regulate emotional responses."
"I'm agitated because you won't listen."
"I am listening."
"No. You're diagnosing. There's a difference."
He stands. Extends his hand. She doesn't take it.
"We're going to help you, Seraphina. But first, you need to let us."
"I don't want your help. I want out."
"That's the illness talking."
"No." She backs toward the wall. Paper gown catching on itself. Fluorescent lights are buzzing overhead like insects. "That's me talking. The actual person you refuse to see because you've already decided who I am."
He nods to Karen. Some silent signal. Communication in the language of institutions is older than any patient. Karen picks up a phone. Presses three buttons.
"We're going to give you something to help you rest." The doctor's voice is soothing. Final. "Then tomorrow we'll start proper treatment…"
"I don't consent."
"Your father has medical power of attorney for the duration of your hold."
Of course he does. Signed over when she was unconscious. Or maybe years ago. Maybe this was always the plan. Keep the paperwork ready. Just in case the truth-teller daughter became a problem.
Two orderlies enter. Different from the men at the house but the same type. Efficient. Impersonal. They flank her.
"Please don't make this difficult," Karen says. Actually sounds tired now. Not unkind. Just exhausted by the weight of other people's powerlessness.
"Difficult for who?"
No one answers.
Seraphina doesn't fight the injection this time. What's the point? She's learned. Screaming won't save her. Silence won't either. The truth doesn't matter when the people holding the clipboard have already decided it's a symptom.
The drug spreads warm through her veins. Different from the car. Slower. Heavier. Pulling her down into something that feels like drowning in cotton.
She hears the doctor signing papers. That sound. Scratch of a pen. Same as her father's desk.
Everyone is always signing something.
"There." Karen's voice. Distant now. "That should…"
"Wait." The doctor. "She's flagged."
"For what?"
"Transfer."
Silence. Wrong kind. Surprised kind.
"Already? She just came in."
"Special circumstances. Family requested... let me check." Pages turning. "Yes. Pre-approved transfer to a secondary facility. Private care."
"That's unusual."
"Everything about this case is unusual." Papers shuffling. Stamps. Signatures. "Get her ready. Transport arrives in three hours."
The world is tilting sideways. Seraphina tries to speak but her mouth won't cooperate. Tries to ask where but the words sink before surfacing.
Transfer. She wasn't supposed to be transferred. Seventy-two hours, her father said. Three days, he said. But someone is moving her and s
He doesn't know why, and she can't ask and can't fight and can't…
Karen's voice, far away, like underwater:
"Should we sedate her for transport?"
The doctor's response, clinical and distant:
"She's cleared for transfer.”