Unscheduled Therapy | Flash Fiction

The walls curve inward. The air smells of damp stone. 

The hallway feels less like architecture and more like something organic, like the inside of a throat. 

The footsteps behind her become a drumbeat.

Welcome to another corner of Sketches & Storytelling – The Story Sketchbook – a space where I share short bursts of fiction straight from my creative sketchbook. These stories are quick reads, but each one is a snapshot of a bigger world, a character in motion, or a moment that matters.

This one’s a little eerie, a little reflective, and like most things here, it started with a question I couldn’t shake.

Hope you enjoy the read.

---

“Mornin’ Miss Edwards, how’d you sleep? Breakfast’s being served in the Day Room, and you’ve got a therapy session at eleven. Wouldn’t wanna miss it.”

The orderly’s footsteps fade down the corridor before Ruby is fully awake. 

She rubs at her eyes and sits up slowly, head thick and heavy, as though sleep has left something behind instead of taking it away. Pulling on her dressing gown, she shoves her hair into a messy bun and heads to the bathroom.

The mirror catches her reflection, half a beat behind.

Not enough to be certain, but enough to make her stomach tighten.

Fifteen minutes later, she’s dressed and in the corridor where the air feels a little too still. 

Clearview always smells faintly of disinfectant and damp plaster, like a place trying to convince you that it’s clean.

She reaches the Day Room entrance and nearly collides with the orderly who woke her.

“Ahh… mornin’ Miss Edwards. Good to see you up. You all set?”

Ruby hesitates.

“Actually, I wanted to ask about the session. I already had therapy the day before yesterday. There’s nothing else on my calendar.”

The orderly’s expression shifts, briefly.

“This one’s… off the books, if you like. Part of your reconciliation cycle. That’s all I know. They don’t tell me much.”

Ruby thanks her, but the words don’t settle properly.

Off the books?

Questions bubble in the back of her mind like her grey matter is being boiled.

*** 

Doctor Holland’s office is warm. Too warm. The sort of warmth that seems intentional to make you uncomfortable.

As Ruby steps inside, time seems to halt for a moment.

The clock’s second hand hesitates.

A tiny fungus gnat hangs frozen above a peace lily.

Then everything continues as normal, as though it never happened. 

“Please, Ruby,” Dr Holland says gently. “Have a seat. No need to stand.”

How long have I stood there gawping?

She sits.

The usual niceties pass, thin as paper – and nowhere near as thick as Ruby’s patient file – and then Holland leans forward, hands folded neatly. 

“Have you been experiencing any recent disorientation? Any more dreams of corridors?”

Ruby thinks carefully. 

“No. No dreams at all, actually. Not that I remember anyway. I seem to be dead to the world when I sleep lately.”

“And spatial disorientation?”

“No. I’ve been fine.”

I’ve tried honesty. That didn’t get me out of here.

“And the gaps in your memory. From before?”

Ruby’s jaw tightens.

“That hasn’t changed. Maybe it shouldn’t.”

Dr Holland’s pen pauses.

Damn. I’ve said too much. Again.

Ruby clears her throat, forcing her voice steady. 

“This session wasn’t in my calendar.”

“This one is a little different,” Holland says. “Have you heard of Cognitive Reconciliation Therapy before?”

Ruby shakes her head.

“This session is about preparing you for your next steps. Whether they’re taken outside, back in society… or here, in Clearview. The plan is to work out the best course of action based on how you’re responding to treatment.”

Ruby holds her own hand for comfort. 

“It ultimately comes down to two choices.”

“What are they?”

“That depends… on whether your memory returns, and how much.”

Ruby feels something cold move through her.

“You see, we’re concerned,” Holland continues, “about what you might remember already. Not intentionally withheld, of course. Subconsciously.”

Before Ruby can probe further, three loud raps strike the door. 

“Sorry, Ruby. Come in.”

The door bursts open so fast it nearly leaves the frame. 

An orderly Ruby doesn’t recognise appears, flustered.

“We’ve got a… situation in Ward Ten, Doctor. Same as before.”

Holland exhales.

“Okay. I can’t come down there at the moment, but I can get you something from stores. Excuse me for a moment, Ruby.”

They leave together, closing the door.

Ruby sits alone. Her eyes drift to the file on the desk. 

She knows she shouldn’t. But she does.

She grabs it and flips it open, heart pounding.

Pages of notes. Dissociation onset. Emotional lag. Memory fracture behaviour. Snippets from her dream journal.

Then phrases leap off the paper like they’re animated. 

UNANCHORED EXPOSURE TRIAL – PHASE THREE

Successful retrieval with manageable Hollowmarking.

Subject tolerated unanchored crossing longer than predicted.

Mental stability questionable.

Pre-Erasure Audit – Underway

Ruby’s mouth goes dry.

Test.

Trial.

Unanchored Crossing.

Her hands tremble.

“I was hoping your curiosity was still present…” 

Ruby whirls, almost leaving her skin.

Dr Holland stands in the doorway.

“What is this?” Ruby demands, voice cracking. “What was I a test subject for? What is Cognitive Reconciliation?”

Holland steps closer, calm as ever.

“We’re here to help you, Ruby. The dreams, the distortions, the emotional echoing… It’s all residual resonance. We’re going to eliminate it and get you back to yourself.”

“You mean erase me?” Ruby asks, fighting tears. 

“You’ll be stable,” Holland says softly. “But you must be compliant, or it won’t work.”

“What choice do I have?”

Holland’s expression doesn’t change. 

“Freedom with amnesia. Fully recovered. You’re too close to destabilising awareness. This is for your own safety.”

Ruby’s anger rises, hot behind her eyes. 

“But healing isn’t forgetting, it’s making peace with what remains!” she says, voice trembling.

Holland sighs, almost weary.

“If you refuse, you’ll be classified as non-recoverable. Transferred to long-term containment in Ward Ten”

“Is the erasure process painful?”

A pause.

“Yes,” Holland admits. “But… You won’t remember the pain. Any of it.”

At least she’s honest.

Ruby stares at the file. At the words that explain everything and nothing. 

I need to get out of here.

“This is the only way,” she whispers to herself.

“Okay,” she says aloud, “I’ll do it.”

***

Two days later, she’s escorted to the Procedure Room. 

A hospital bed fitted with straps waits beneath harsh lights.

A trolley beside it hosts a sharps container and a tray with syringes and other instruments that wouldn’t look out of place in a medieval torture chamber. 

Ruby’s tongue turns to sand.

There’s a mirror on the far wall. 

Are they watching me from the other side?

The orderly guides her down and straps her legs. Too tight. 

As he reaches for her arms, something in Ruby snaps.

Something almost animalistic. Survival.

She headbutts him, and he stumbles back like a drunk as blood begins to colour his nose, mouth and chin.

She grabs a syringe and launches towards his neck. 

The bed tips sideways, with her still half-bound. The needle finds its mark, and the orderly crumples just a moment after the bed hits the ground.

Pain flashes through Ruby’s body, white-hot, but adrenaline drowns it out like a drug.

She tears herself free, stumbles upright and grabs another syringe as she leaves the room.

She runs.

Corridors twist. No exit signs. Clearview becomes a labyrinthine mix of double doors and dead ends, as though the building is shifting.

Finally – the familiar hue of a fire exit sign. 

She bursts through the doors into a stairwell.

The stairs only go down. She doesn’t remember ever coming up any stairs en route to the Procedure Room.

Don’t overthink it Rubes. It says ‘exit’.

She runs.

One flight.

Two. 

Five.

Twelve.

At the bottom, double doors open into darkness.

Footsteps thunder above.

Ruby pushes through.

A dim corridor stretches ahead, eerily familiar. 

Have I dreamed about this?

The walls curve inward. The air smells of damp stone. 

The hallway feels less like architecture and more like something organic, like the inside of a throat. 

The footsteps behind her become a drumbeat.

Then she reaches another door. And stops. 

This… is impossible.

Red mahogany.

Twelve small square panels.

A brass handle. A letterbox lower than practical. 

It’s the door to her childhood home.

“Miss Edwards,” Dr Holland’s voice says behind her, calm and unhurried. “It seems we’re still at the junction of your two choices.” 

Ruby’s breath shudders.

Healing isn’t forgetting.

Her hands find the handle. 

“I wouldn’t go through there if I were you, Ruby.” 

She closes her eyes, bites her lip and pushes. 

The door swings open into complete darkness, and she steps through.

Not knowing if it leads out. Or back.