I'm a nurse at the newest Spravado treatment center, specializing in treating the toughest cases of depression with the newest FDA approved esketimine treatment. I teach new patients how to administer medication and assist in any needs in the 2 hours they are required to stay.
What I don't have to do is watch you touch yourself while you experience your treatment. I mean, while we have private sections, of course we have cameras. I should come in there and kick you out, ban you from our treatment centers, but I know how bad you need this.
I also know how to bump the right button to shut off the cameras for that room and blame it on an accident. We've talked about your depression rating and what's been making your life seem so bleak. I know kicking you out of this place would be worse for your mental health overall.
So, I ignore it. I could have just watched, heard your pitiful moans and the sounds of your stupid cunt. But I hear the slightest whimper of a name, a name I've heard almost every day for years. My name.
A verbal growl comes from my mouth as I stalk my prey, dissociated from the world, blinded and deafened by headphones and the prettiest pink eye mask. Quickly, I snake my hand around your head and cover your mouth, grabbing your wrist with my other hand and replacing where it once was, ever so slowly. You lift up your mask with a slick hand, and I nearly orgasm myself from the fear, confusion, and arousal in your eyes.
"Repeat after me, or I'll stop touching you. Understand?" I whisper, and you nod after a second of confusion. "'I want to live.'"
You're silent and I do as I say, refusing to move, and moving to remove my hand. You grip my wrist with an urgency I haven't seen, and repeat the words, quickly and as quiet as a mouse. "I want to live."
I smile as my hand starts to move. "'I am worthy of love.'"