THE CUBICLE

 

CHAPTER THREE

Three years ago...

“Okay, Mr. Murdock. We’re going to begin the ECT—Electroconvulsive Therapy—procedure. You shouldn’t feel a thing,” said the doctor in a flat, clinical voice, adjusting the sterile white coat draped over his shoulders.

Michael’s eyes widened with panic. “I didn’t sign up for this!”

The doctor didn’t blink. “According to your psychiatrist, this procedure is mandatory.”

Michael’s heart pounded. He took a shaky step back, glancing toward the door—but before he could react, a towering male nurse, dark-skinned and built like a linebacker, blocked his path. His face showed no emotion.

“Restrain him,” the doctor ordered calmly.

Two more nurses stormed in, gripping a straitjacket. Michael thrashed as they grabbed him, his screams echoing off the padded walls.

“Help! Help me! I don’t give my consent!”

Then—a sting. A needle in his arm.

His vision blurred instantly. The world around him melted into black mist.

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When he came to, he was strapped to a narrow table, cold wires pressed against his skull. He blinked, sluggish and confused. A monitor beeped steadily behind him.

“Doctor, he’s awake!” one of the nurses said, alarmed.

“Impossible. We gave him a strong sedative,” muttered the doctor, eyes locked on the screen.

Michael writhed in his restraints. “Please… stop… get me out of here!”

Without warning, the voltage surged—blasting through his mind like a storm. His body convulsed violently, muscles tightening in every limb. It felt like his brain was being torn apart from the inside.

“He’s seizing! Sedate him again!”

His legs kicked uncontrollably. His chest bucked off the table. Another jab in his arm—and slowly, mercifully, everything faded into sleep again.

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Present Day

Michael jolted awake in his cramped apartment, gasping for air.

Sweat clung to his skin. His heartbeat thundered in his chest. The nightmare still danced behind his eyes—wires on his head, burning electricity in his skull, the cold faces of strangers forcing him into silence.

It took him a minute to realize it was over. Just a dream. Just memory.

He lit a cigarette, the tip glowing in the dim room. The smoke curled upward, soft and comforting. The nicotine grounded him.

Outside, loud voices drifted in through the window—protests. Angry crowds marched down the street, shouting into megaphones.

“End medical corruption!”
“We are not experiments!”
“Stop drugging patients!”

He watched them pass with tired eyes. He understood their anger more than anyone.

His phone buzzed.

Voicemail.

“Hi Michael… it’s your sister. Just checking in. The kids were asking about you today. I hope you’re doing okay…”

Sharon. Always trying to keep the bond alive.

She lived upstate in Buffalo now—couldn’t take the chaos of New York City. Too loud, too fast, too dangerous. Michael didn’t blame her. They’d been inseparable as kids. She raised him more than their parents ever did.

But after she had her own children, things changed. Slowly, the calls became less frequent. The visits faded. Now all that was left were voicemails like this one.

Michael put out his cigarette in the ashtray beside him.

He sat in silence.

The door banged with urgency.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It was the landlord again—reminding him about the rent. Michael didn’t move. He didn’t answer. Eventually, the knocking stopped.

Outside, the sky turned a deep, bruised purple, streaked with orange and gray. Dusk was swallowing the city whole.

Michael lay down again, dragging the thin blanket over his chest. Sleep was the only place he could disappear—his only escape from a world that never seemed to let him breathe.

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