Chapter 52: Being Treated

The lab coats all bore the insignia “Qutbridge Psychiatric Hospital.” She instantly recognized her destination: a psychiatric hospital—a place barely better than a prison.

Raylee remained calm. After a deep breath, she asked, “Who gave you the audacity to kidnap me? Are you after money, or do you intend to harm me? What is your objective?”

“What’s this about money and harm? We’re a psychiatric hospital. Your family believes you’re suffering from a mental disorder and asked us to bring you here for treatment,” a female nurse retorted.

“My family? Who are you referring to?”

“Don’t you know your own family? You really must be ill. It seems we’ll need to treat you properly once you’re committed.”

Raylee attempted to reason with them. “If you’re referring to the Goodridge family, they are not my kin. Their surname is Goodridge; mine is Somers. They have no right to commit me.”

“Don’t worry about rights. Once you’re in this car, you’re a patient. Now stop asking questions and accept treatment!”

“How can I be treated for an illness I don’t have?”

“Every person with a mental disorder insists they’re not ill!”

The nurse ignored her, engrossed in her phone. Soon, Raylee was escorted into the hillside hospital. She was forcibly dressed in a patient's gown, assigned a number and a bed, and unwittingly became a psychiatric patient.

Observing her fellow patients—all clad in identical gowns—she saw some yelling wildly, others mumbling incoherently, and still others lost in silent stupor. None seemed normal. Whether they were genuinely ill, Raylee couldn't say. All she knew was that she wasn't a patient. She had been forcibly confined!

“I’m not sick! My mental state is perfectly fine! I demand to see my family!” she shouted at the nurse.

“Yes, yes, you’re not sick. I’ll take you to your family now; just follow me obediently!” the nurse said impatiently, tugging her along.

Raylee followed the nurse into a treatment room, but instead of her family, she found an elderly man in a white coat. His name tag identified him as Neville Crofton.

“Ah, you’re here! You’re Mr. Goodridge’s younger sister, yes? You look quite pale. You’ve been having episodes frequently, haven’t you?” The doctor assessed her, drawing his conclusions.

Raylee wanted to retort, “You’re the one who’s crazy!” but the words died in her throat. Astonished, she asked, “You’re talking about Samuel… why does he have to keep me here?”

“Oh dear, you can’t even remember Mr. Goodridge is your brother. It seems your illness is quite severe. Come, let’s start with the first course of medication!”

He produced a handful of pills. “You know how to take medicine, right? Swallow them yourself.”

Raylee's temper flared, and she knocked the pills to the floor. “I’m not sick, so I won’t take medicine! Bring Samuel to me! I need to talk to him!”

Why on earth had Samuel confined her to a psychiatric hospital? She’d already spent four years in prison for Waverly—wasn’t that enough? Why this torment?

Numerous scenes flashed through Raylee’s mind. After her release from prison, she’d had several conflicts with Samuel, escalating to a complete rift. Yet, she never imagined he would hold such a grudge, resorting to such measures for revenge.

What was the difference between a psychiatric hospital and prison? Both were cages that bound her freedom.

“Refusing your medicine? Then we’ll switch to injections!” Neville’s brows furrowed. “Get some people in here to hold her down! This new patient is unruly!”

Several nurses, including a burly male nurse, entered. They pinned Raylee to the bed, rendering her immobile. Neville, holding a syringe, approached…

Raylee felt the medication injected. A wave of weakness washed over her; her head spun.

Neville laughed. “The world falls silent the moment the needle goes in, right? Anyway, if you don’t take your medicine obediently, you’ll get a shot every day!”

Raylee was led back to her room in a daze. To prevent emotional outbursts once the medication wore off, they restrained her to the bed. Before the restraints were even secured, however, Raylee was already struggling and shouting. “I need to see Samuel! I’m sane, I’m not ill! You need to let me go! Help!”

“How did the medication wear off so quickly? This is bad, she’s resistant to drugs. Hurry, bring the electroconvulsive therapy machine!”

The treatment room was in chaos. Some frantically called for Neville; others scrambled for the ECT machine.