The city shifted past the tinted windows of the Mercedes in a blur of grey and glass. My head was still thrumming from the rhythmic, violent clanging of the MRI machine—a sound that felt like the final nails being driven into the coffin of my autonomy. I sat in the backseat, my good hand resting protectively over the cast on my left wrist, feeling the phantom vibration of the magnets in my very bones.
I felt smaller than I had ever felt in my life. The expensive grey knit of my sweater, chosen to make me look "compliant," now felt like a straightjacket. Dr. Thorpe hadn't looked at me like a person; he had looked at me like a problem to be solved with data. A "cognitive disruption." A "path forward." They were words meant to erase the bruises Jason had left, turning his rage into my medica
