Chapter 18: Professional Assistance
The silence in the apartment had weight now. It was a palpable thing, thick and resonant, like the quiet inside a cocoon. Willow existed within it, a still center in a world of soft sounds: the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sigh of traffic, the precise, careful movements of Daisy.
Days bled into one another, marked only by the routine of care. Daisy’s guilt had hardened into a kind of monastic dedication. Every action was measured, intentional. She fed Willow with a soft plastic spoon, blew on each bite of oatmeal to cool it. She administered pills, her fingers gentle on Willow’s chin to tip her head back. She bathed her with sponges, her touch both clinical and reverent, tracing the edges of plaster and plastic as if reading a sacred text.
Willow had stopped talking. Words seemed pointless, airy things that couldn’t penetrate the solid reality of her confinement. She communicated in grunts, in the direction of her gaze. Her body, once a source of constant clumsy motion, was now a landscape. She studied the cracks in the ceiling. She watched the light move across the wall. She felt the deep, dormant ache of her bones knitting. And she felt the other thing, too—the low, persistent hum that had begun in the aftermath of the rope, a needy frequency just beneath her skin. It had no outlet. Her hands were captive. Her body was a locked room.
Daisy saw it. She watched Willow’s eyes, the quickening of her breath when Daisy adjusted her sling, the faint flush that spread on her neck when the washcloth passed over a certain spot. She didn’t mention it. She simply observed, cataloguing reactions like a scientist.
One afternoon, while Daisy was at the pharmacy, Willow tried to move. It was a pure, desperate act of will. She focused everything she had into her right shoulder, the one trapped in the monstrous black brace. She tried to roll, just an inch. A grinding, searing pain lit up her collarbone, a white-hot wire of protest. She cried out, a thin, animal sound that echoed in the empty room. She fell back, sweating, her heart jackhammering against the rigid torso brace.
That’s how Daisy found her—pale, panting, with a wild, trapped look in her eyes.
“What happened?” Daisy dropped the pharmacy bag, her composure cracking.
“Tried… to move,” Willow gasped.
Daisy’s face went through a series of rapid changes: fear, anger, then a terrifying calm. She checked Willow over, her fingers probing the shoulder, the juncture of brace and cast. “You’ve hurt yourself.” It wasn’t a question.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not.” Daisy’s voice was cold. She retrieved the pharmacy bag. “I got a new muscle relaxant. The doctor said it’s stronger.” She shook out two pills, held them to Willow’s lips. “Swallow.”
Willow did. The medication was a slow, heavy tide, pulling her under. The sharp pain dulled to a throb. The humming need faded into static. She floated.
When she woke, the light was different. Colder. The apartment was dark. Daisy was sitting in a chair by the bed, watching her. In her hands was a small, discreet, silicone vibrator. The one from the grabber tool. She was turning it over and over, her thumb testing the button, making it buzz softly for a second before letting it die.
“You can’t move,” Daisy stated, her voice quiet in the gloom. “The medicine will help the pain. But it won’t help… the rest.” She met Willow’s drugged, heavy-lidded gaze. “I can help the rest.”
Willow just blinked, slow.
Daisy stood. She moved to the side of the bed. With careful, deliberate motions, she lifted the edge of the torso brace. She slipped the vibrator underneath, against Willow’s skin, just below her sternum. It was a cool, foreign pressure. Daisy used a roll of the cohesive bandage to secure it in place, wrapping it around Willow’s torso twice, pinning the device firmly against her.
She picked up a small remote control. She pressed a button.
A low, insistent vibration began inside Willow’s casing. It wasn’t on her skin; it was in her, a resonance traveling through her ribs, into the core of her. It was maddening. It was everything. She let out a shuddering breath.
Daisy watched her face. She adjusted the setting. The vibration intensified, becoming a deep, rhythmic pulse. Willow’s back arched as much as the braces would allow. A soft, broken sound escaped her.
“There,” Daisy whispered, a note of satisfaction in her voice. She set the remote on the bedside table. “For when you need it.”
It became part of the routine. Daisy would activate it sometimes during her care, her expression neutral, as if she were checking a vital sign. Other times, she would leave the remote just within Willow’s line of sight, a silent offering. Willow lived in a haze of medication and this new, electrical torment. The frustration had been fused with a helpless, shattering pleasure. She hated it. She craved it. She lost track of time.
Then the fever started.
It came on slow—a warmth that wasn’t from the vibrator, a dry thirst. Then the chills. Willow began to shake, her teeth chattering, the vibrations of the device mingling with the tremors of her body.
Daisy felt her forehead. Her hand was cool. “You’re burning up.”
“Cold,” Willow managed to say.
A day passed. The fever spiked. Willow drifted in and out of consciousness. The world was a blur of hot and cold, of Daisy’s worried face, of the relentless, now-irritating buzz against her skin.
“I think it’s an infection,” Daisy said, her voice tight with a new, fresher panic. “The incision on your hip. It looks red.”
She called Brenda. Brenda came, took one look at Willow’s glazed eyes and flushed cheeks, and called an ambulance.
The hospital was a shock of sterile light and beeping. Willow was transferred from her gurney to a bed in a curtained recovery bay, the process a jarring symphony of clattering metal and efficient voices. Her collection of casts and braces drew looks from the nursing staff.
Dr. Amelia Harding entered, her stride purposeful, her white coat crisp. She scanned the chart on a tablet, then looked at Willow with her sharp, assessing gaze. “Miss Hayes. We meet again. Pyrexia of unknown origin, they’re saying.” She moved to the bedside. “Let’s have a look.”
Her touch was firm, professional. She checked Willow’s pupils, her throat. She listened to her heart and lungs with a stethoscope, the cold disc finding bare skin between the braces. Then she focused on the heavy hip cast. “We need to check the surgical site. Daisy, you said there was redness?”
Daisy, hovering by the doorway, nodded mutely.
Dr. Harding pulled on gloves. She took a small, powerful-looking electric saw from a tray. The sound it made was a high, relentless whine. With precise, confident strokes, she cut a small window into the hip cast, just over the incision line. The plaster dust smelled like burnt stone.
She peeled back the square, revealing the skin beneath. It was angry red, swollen, and hot to the touch. “Cellulitis,” Dr. Harding murmured. “Not uncommon, but we need to treat it aggressively.” She began to palpate the area around it, her fingers pressing gently.
Then her brow furrowed. Her fingers stopped. She felt something through the skin, something that wasn’t inflamed tissue. Something solid and out of place, nestled against Willow’s ribs, under the edge of the torso brace.
She looked from the hidden object to Willow’s fever-bright eyes, to Daisy’s pale, frozen face by the door.
Without a word, Dr. Harding hooked a finger under the top edge of the torso brace. She leveraged it up just enough to peer inside. Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. She saw the cohesive bandage. She saw the shape of the vibrator beneath it.
Willow held her breath. The world shrank to the humming of the lights, the smell of antiseptic, and the doctor’s impassive face.
Dr. Harding released the brace, letting it snap back into place. She turned to her instrument tray. She picked up a different tool—a slim, black remote with a small screen, used for adjusting hospital bed positions and settings. She didn’t look at Daisy. She kept her eyes locked on Willow’s.
“Muscle spasms can be severe with prolonged immobility,” Dr. Harding said, her voice perfectly even, clinically cool. “Vibrational therapy can sometimes provide relief for deep tissue. However, the intensity needs to be calibrated correctly. Too little does nothing. Too much can cause further tension.”
She held up the black remote. Her thumb moved over it. “This controls your bed. But the principle is similar.”
She pointed the remote at Willow. Not at the bed. At Willow.
She pressed a button.
A deep, powerful thrum erupted from inside Willow’s brace. It was a setting she’d never felt before. Daisy’s remote had only accessed lower levels. This was different. This was a medical-grade intensity. It wasn’t a buzz; it was a punishing, internal tremor, a jackhammer against her spine.
Willow gasped, her body straining against its constraints. A choked cry was torn from her.
Dr. Harding watched her, unblinking. She adjusted a dial on the remote with her thumb. The vibration shifted, becoming a sharp, erratic pulse, a staccato torture. Tears sprang to Willow’s eyes. It was agony. It was unbearable. It was exquisite.
“Finding the correct therapeutic threshold is key,” Dr. Harding continued, her tone didactic, as if lecturing a student. She increased the intensity again. The device felt like it was drilling into her bones. Willow’s vision blurred. Her back was a bowstring, every muscle locked in a seizure of sensation.
Daisy took a step forward, a strangled sound in her throat. “Doctor, I—”
Dr. Harding’s head swiveled toward Daisy, the remote still pointed at Willow. The vibration never ceased. “You should have consulted a physiotherapist about auxiliary care, Miss Bloom. Unregulated stimuli can complicate recovery.” Her gaze swung back to Willow, who was trembling violently, caught in the current. “Do you feel relief, Miss Hayes? Or is the intensity excessive?”
Willow couldn’t speak. She could only make a sound, a ragged moan that was answer enough.
Dr. Harding held the setting for a three-count longer. Then, smoothly, she thumbed the remote off.
The sudden silence was deafening. The absence of vibration was a shock in itself. Willow collapsed into the pillows, soaked in sweat, breathing in ragged, sobbing gulps. The memory of the sensation buzzed in her very marrow.
Dr. Harding placed the remote back on the tray. She peeled off her gloves with a snap. “I’ll prescribe a broad-spectrum intravenous antibiotic for the infection. The fever should break within twenty-four hours.” She made a note on the tablet. “As for the… adjunct therapy,” she said, not looking at either of them, “I’ve adjusted the settings to a more medically appropriate level. The device can remain. For muscle relaxation.”
She finally looked at Daisy, her expression unreadable. “You may use the remote I’ve provided. Do not deviate from its current program. It’s set to administer short, intermittent cycles. Overuse can cause nerve desensitization.”
Daisy just stared, her face a mask of awe and terror.
Dr. Harding gave a curt nod. “A nurse will be in to start the IV. Rest, Miss Hayes.” She turned and left, the curtain swishing shut behind her, leaving them in the buzzing, sterile quiet.
Willow lay ruined, tears drying on her cheeks, the ghost of the doctor’ controlled violence thrumming under her skin. Daisy slowly walked to the bedside. She picked up the black hospital remote from the tray. It was warm.
She looked at Willow, her eyes wide. “She knew,” Daisy whispered.
Willow turned her head. She looked at the remote in Daisy’s hand, then back at Daisy’s face, where fear was slowly being edged out by a dark, dawning understanding. The authority had not taken the instrument away. It had sanctioned it. It had, in fact, shown them how it was really done.
Daisy’s fingers tightened around the remote. A new, more dangerous knowledge passed between them, silent and absolute.