Chapter 3

I didn't die.

I woke up encased in padded walls. No window. Just a single, heavy steel door.

Julian had me committed to a psych ward.

His reason: severe “persecutory delusions,” marked by “suicidal ideation and violent impulses.

A forged diagnostic report was even more damaging than that HIV report.

It stripped me of my last bit of agency as a normal person.

Every morning at six, I was dragged out of bed.

Ice-cold water was sprayed directly onto my face.

They called it "physical cooling to eliminate viruses."

I'd huddle in a corner, teeth chattering from the cold.

Julian never visited, but he sent boxes and boxes of antiviral drugs.

They were HIV post-exposure prophylaxis (PEP).

The side effects were brutal.

He'd given a strict order: they had to watch me swallow them.

Three times a day.

The medication made me vomit violently, my hair falling out in clumps.

I cried, I screamed, I begged them.

"I'm not sick! I really don't have it! Please, just one re-test!"

My pleas, in the doctor's notes, became another cold, impersonal line:

"Patient's condition is unstable, experiencing hallucinations, and resisting treatment."

Then came the electroshock therapy.

As the current surged through my temples, my muscles spasmed uncontrollably.

I started losing control of my bladder, drooling, convulsing like a true madwoman.

But I still held onto a sliver of hope.

I thought, Julian is a germaphobe so he's just terrified.

If only I could see him, if only I could explain...

Three months later, Vanessa came.

Through the thick glass of the visitation window, she showed me photos on her phone.

They were her and Julian's wedding photos.

In the pictures, she wore the exclusive wedding dress I'd dreamed of countless times, smiling sweetly and triumphantly.

"Ava, isn't it beautiful?"

"Julian said only someone clean in body and soul deserves to wear this dress."

"And you," she gestured at my baggy patient gown, "deserve to rot in here."

I lunged at the glass like a madwoman, pounding it with all my might.

"I'm not sick, it was a misdiagnosis! Vanessa, please, beg Julian to take me for a re-test!"

Vanessa looked at me with pity, like I was a dying ant.

"So what if it was a misdiagnosis?"

"Ava, do you really think the truth matters?"

"The whole world believes that report, and Julian only thinks you're dirty. Do you think you have any chance of turning things around?"

At that moment, I saw a familiar figure at the end of the hallway.

Julian had arrived.

I desperately pounded the glass, screaming his name.

"Julian! Please, take me for a re-test! I'm really not sick!"

Julian glanced at me from a distance.

He frowned, then turned and walked away.

Vanessa turned back to me, mouthing words:

"He doesn't want to see anything dirty."

In that moment, the light in my heart went out.