Chapter 3: The Enema Begins
The wooden spoon scraped against the metal bowl in slow, deliberate circles. Katie listened to each rotation—the soft clink of wood against steel, the wet slosh of milk and molasses folding into one another—and felt her stomach clench with a nausea that had nothing to do with the procedure and everything to do with what came next.
"You're going to feel some pressure," Dr. Holloway said.
The spoon stopped. Katie heard it set down on the cart with a dull tap. Then the sound of water running—not from the sink, but from a different source, a deep mechanical gurgle that seemed to come from the walls themselves. The pipes groaned, and warm water splashed into a container.
Katie turned her head just enough to see Dr. Holloway filling a metal bowl from a spigot mounted above the counter. Steam rose in lazy ribbons, curling toward the ceiling. The doctor carried the bowl to the IV pole beside the exam table and hung it from a hook, adjusting the height with a practiced twist of her fingers.
"This," Dr. Holloway said, "is the first stage of the treatment. Complete evacuation of the bowel. The solution cannot take effect until the system is clean."
Katie's throat constricted. "You're going to—"
"Flush you out. Yes." Dr. Holloway picked up the length of flexible tubing from the cart. It was clear plastic, coiled like a sleeping serpent, one end fitted with a funnel and the other with a nozzle that glinted under the fluorescent lights. She held it up, inspecting it, and Katie saw the nozzle clearly: tapered, ridged, and longer than she expected. Far longer.
"Is that—" Katie's voice cracked. She swallowed and tried again. "Is that going inside me?"
"It has to be." Dr. Holloway uncapped a small tube of lubricant and squeezed a thick ribbon onto her gloved fingers. The smell hit Katie immediately—something clinical and slightly sweet, like artificial fruit masking a chemical base. "The water needs to reach the large intestine. A shallow insertion won't accomplish that."
The doctor coated the nozzle in slow, sure strokes. Katie watched the lubricant glisten on the plastic, watched Dr. Holloway's fingers slide from base to tip and back again. Each pass made her stomach tighten another notch.
"You said Laya went through this," Katie whispered.
"I did."
"Did she—" The question stuck in Katie's throat. She bit her lower lip, tasted blood again, and forced it out. "Did she scream?"
Dr. Holloway paused. For a moment, something flickered behind her wire-rimmed glasses—something that might have been memory, or might have been calculation. Then it was gone.
"She did," the doctor said. "At first. Most patients do. But the body adapts. Yours will too."
She stepped toward the table, the tubing trailing from her hand like a leash. Katie heard the soft slosh of water in the bowl suspended above her, heard the creak of the IV pole as it shifted under the weight. Her wrists strained against the restraints, the padded metal biting into her skin with a familiar, useless pressure.
"Spread your legs," Dr. Holloway instructed. "As wide as the restraints allow."
Katie hesitated. The straps at her ankles held her feet at shoulder width, but the doctor wanted more. She tried to comply, pushing her legs outward until the restraints pulled taut, the leather creaking in protest. The position left her exposed, vulnerable, every inch of her lower body on display.
"Good."
A gloved hand pressed against her lower back, steadying her. Then Katie felt the first touch—slick, cold fingers spreading her open, pressing against the sore, swollen tissue of her anus. She flinched, a sharp inhale hissing through her teeth.
"I know," Dr. Holloway murmured. "You're raw from the scope. But this is necessary."
The nozzle touched her. Katie felt its blunt tip press against her sphincter, felt the resistance as her body instinctively clenched. Dr. Holloway pushed anyway—a slow, steady pressure that seemed to have no end. The tip slid past the first ring of muscle with a wet, burning stretch that made Katie's vision blur.
"Breathe," the doctor said.
Katie couldn't. Her lungs had locked. She felt the nozzle pushing deeper, each ridge and contour of the plastic dragging against her tender tissue. The lubricant helped, but not enough. Nothing could be enough for this.
Then the nozzle stopped. Katie felt it settle inside her, a foreign weight that her body wanted to expel and couldn't. She heard Dr. Holloway adjust something—the tubing, the clamp—and then the distinct sound of a valve being opened.
Water rushed through the line.
Katie heard it before she felt it: the wet gurgle of liquid moving through the tubing, the soft splash as it reached the nozzle, and then—then the first trickle entered her body. Warm and slow, a steady stream that coated her insides with heat. Her muscles clenched around the nozzle, trying to push it out, but Dr. Holloway's hand pressed firmly against her lower back.
"Relax," the doctor said. "Let it in."
The water kept coming. Katie felt it pool in her rectum, a growing pressure that radiated upward into her abdomen. The warmth spread through her like a fever, and with it came a deep, cramping ache that made her gasp.
"How much—" she panted. "How much water?"
"Two liters. Maybe more, depending on how much you can hold."
Two liters. Katie tried to picture it—a large soda bottle, two of them, poured into her body. The pressure was already building, a heavy fullness that pressed against her internal organs, and the water kept flowing.
She heard the bowl above her gurgle as it emptied, heard the pitch change as the water level dropped. Her body was a vessel being filled, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
The cramping intensified. Katie felt her abdomen distend, felt the water stretching her intestines in ways they were never meant to stretch. Sweat beaded on her forehead, trickled down her temples. She pressed her face into the ruined paper sheet and tried to breathe through the pain.
"Please," she whispered. "Please, I can't—"
"You can." Dr. Holloway's voice was calm, clinical. "You're doing well. Laya struggled at this stage too, but she made it through. So will you."
The water stopped. Katie heard the valve close, heard the sudden silence of the tubing. For a moment, there was only the sound of her own ragged breathing and the distant hum of the fluorescent lights.
Then the cramps hit.
They came in waves—deep, rolling contractions that started in her lower abdomen and radiated outward. Katie groaned, her body arching against the restraints, her hips bucking uselessly against the table. The water inside her shifted with each spasm, a heavy, sloshing weight that made her want to scream.
"Hold it," Dr. Holloway said. "As long as you can."
"Wh—what?"
"The water needs time to work. To soften the accumulated waste. If you release it too soon, the treatment won't be effective." The doctor's hand pressed harder against Katie's back. "Hold it."
Katie's eyes flew open. She stared at the poster on the wall—the smiling family, the perfect teeth, the lie of health and happiness—and tried to focus on anything but the pressure building inside her.
The clock ticked. The lights hummed.
And Katie held.
She held as the first minute passed, each tick of the second hand a small eternity. She held as the cramps intensified, as her body screamed at her to let go, to push out the foreign weight that was stretching her beyond endurance. She held as sweat soaked through her hair, as tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and pooled in the creases of the paper sheet.
Dr. Holloway watched. Katie couldn't see her, but she could feel the weight of the doctor's gaze, could hear the soft, steady rhythm of her breathing. The woman was patient. She had done this before. She knew exactly how long to wait.
"Two minutes," Dr. Holloway said. "You're doing better than Laya."
The words should have been a comfort. They weren't. Katie didn't want to be better than Laya. She didn't want to be here at all.
Her body convulsed again—a deep, wrenching spasm that made her cry out. The water inside her surged, pressing against the nozzle, demanding release. Katie clenched every muscle she had, fighting the urge to push, fighting the instinct that told her to expel the invasion.
"One more minute," Dr. Holloway said.
The clock ticked.
Katie held.
And then—finally—the doctor's hand lifted from her back.
"Good," Dr. Holloway said. "Now you can let go."
Katie didn't need to be told twice. Her body took over, muscles contracting in a powerful, unstoppable wave. The nozzle slid free with a wet sound, and the water rushed out of her in a hot, heavy gush that splattered against the table and the floor.
The relief was immediate and overwhelming. Katie sobbed into the paper sheet, her entire body trembling with the force of it. The cramps eased, the pressure lifted, and she was left empty and shaking and alive.
But Dr. Holloway wasn't finished.
"We'll need to repeat that," she said, reaching for the bowl of milk and molasses. "Three more times, at least. Then the solution goes in."
Katie heard the spoon scrape against the metal bowl.
The mixture sloshed.
And somewhere deep in her chest, something broke.