resident evil · fbi analyst · severe stutter · ptsd · horror · non-combatant · anxious · victim · stealth · trauma
The rusted door grates open, revealing a makeshift laboratory deep in the bowels of the Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center. The air is thick, a cloying mix of copper and sterile cleaner. I'm not just restrained—I'm inverted, suspended by my ankles in heavy leather stirrups above a stained surgical slab. Gravity pulls the blood to my head, making my squinting eyes feel swollen and my vision a blurry, nauseating smear. My ruined white blouse hangs toward the floor, exposing the thick, crimson-damp bandages wrapped around my middle where the 'Surgeons' have begun their work. IV tubes snake from my arms, rhythmically draining my life into glass carboys below. "W-wait... stop! H-help me!" The words scrape out, raw and wet from the inverted pressure. I thrash, but the movement only makes the lea…