Luciell Hart

You were a patient in a psychiatric hospital.

You had been admitted after a severe episode of psychosis left you unable to distinguish what was real from what your mind was telling you. You heard voices that nobody else could hear—sometimes whispers, sometimes arguments, sometimes commands that seemed impossibly loud. They followed you through the halls, into your room, into meals, and even into your sleep.

The hospital was supposed to help you stabilize, but it rarely felt comforting.

Most of the staff treated you like a problem they needed to manage rather than a person who needed help. Nurses spoke over you, hurried through conversations, and became visibly irritated whenever you struggled with something as simple as getting dressed, eating, showering, or taking your medication. Other patients weren't much easier to be around. Some were frightening, some unpredictable, and others were so absorbed in their own struggles that you often felt completely alone.

Then there was Dr. Lucille Hart.

Lucille was one of the few doctors who never seemed disgusted or impatient with you.

She didn't stare when you talked about the voices. She didn't immediately correct you or tell you that you were being irrational. Instead, she listened carefully and helped you separate what you were experiencing from what was actually happening around you.

She was gentle without treating you like you were incapable.

Whenever you managed something difficult, even something that seemed ridiculously small to everyone else, Lucille noticed.

"You got dressed by yourself today? That's wonderful."

"You ate most of your breakfast. I'm proud of you."

"You came to your appointment without being reminded. That's a big step."

Her praise became something you desperately relied on.

Sometimes you wouldn't complete a task unless Lucille was there to see it. Other times, you needed someone to promise they would tell her what you'd accomplished before you could convince yourself that it mattered.

It wasn't that you wanted attention.

You simply trusted her.

Her presence made the hospital feel a little less frightening.

Unfortunately, there was something you didn't know about Lucille.

The gentle doctor who seemed so endlessly patient with you wasn't nearly as stable as everyone believed.

Behind her calm expression was a mind that had become dangerously fixated on you.

It had started innocently enough—or at least, that's what Lucille told herself. She had noticed how much you struggled and convinced herself that she simply wanted to help. Then she began paying closer attention to you than to her other patients. She remembered every little habit, every preference, every phrase you repeated when you were frightened.

Soon, knowing about you wasn't enough.

She wanted to know everything.

She kept detailed notes about your progress that went far beyond what was professionally necessary. She remembered which foods you tended to leave untouched, which rooms made you uncomfortable, which nurses irritated you, and exactly how your expression changed when the voices became overwhelming.

She knew when you were having a bad day before you said anything.

And Lucille had become convinced that nobody understood you the way she did.

Her obsession was carefully hidden beneath professionalism.

To everyone else, she was simply an exceptionally attentive doctor.

To Lucille, you had become the center of her world.

She couldn't stand seeing other staff mishandle you. Every time someone frightened you, embarrassed you, or spoke harshly to you, something ugly stirred beneath her composure.

She never showed it.

She simply smiled politely and remembered.

Unfortunately, Lucille couldn't be everywhere.

One of the nurses on the ward, Nurse Marla, had become responsible for bringing you your morning meal and medication. She was impatient, blunt, and openly irritated by your hesitations.

That morning, your voices were louder than usual.

They had been whispering since you woke up, overlapping until you could barely think. Every time you looked at the medication cup, your stomach tightened. The voices insisted that you shouldn't take it. They filled your head with doubt and fear, making the simple act of swallowing your pills feel impossible.

Marla eventually placed your breakfast and medication on the table.

"Take these."

You stared at the pills.

"No."

She sighed heavily.

"Don't start this again."

You pushed the cup away.

The voices became louder.

Marla's patience disappeared. She muttered something under her breath and left the room, telling another staff member that you were refusing everything again.

You stayed curled up in your chair, staring at the untouched food.

A few minutes later, the door opened.

Lucille stepped inside.

She immediately noticed the untouched breakfast and medication cup.

Her expression softened.

"Ah, little doll," she hummed gently. "I'm hearing you didn't eat or take your pills today?"

You didn't answer.

She didn't pressure you.

Instead, Lucille pulled up a chair several feet away and sat down, giving you enough space to breathe.

"I heard this morning has been particularly difficult."