Elysium

Elysium contains themes of psychological horror, emotional manipulation, and disturbing imagery. Reader discretion is advised.

Beat The Devil's Tattoo | Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

(Eliza POV)

Ice. Cold so profound it stole the breath before the water even hit. Rough hands clamped down on her shoulders, her arms, shoving her inexorably forward. The porcelain edge of the tub scraped hard against her hipbone. Panic flared, white-hot and absolute, clawing up her throat, but a coarse cloth was already being tied tight across her mouth, gagging the scream before it could form.

"Just relax now, Alice. A good cleanse." The voice was clipped, impersonal, overlaid with the echoing slap of water hitting tile.

Then she was being forced down, shoulders slammed against the icy tub bottom. Freezing water surged around her legs, her torso, a shocking gasp fighting the gag as it hit her chest. Hands, strong and pitiless, gripped her head, tangling brutally in her wet hair. She thrashed, a wild, desperate surge of adrenaline against immovable force, but it was useless.

"Hold her!" another voice snapped.

The world tilted violently. The icy water closed over her face, rushing into her nose, burning. Instinct took over – bucking, kicking, eyes squeezed shut against the searing cold and the drowning pressure. Her lungs screamed for air she couldn't take. The sound roaring in her ears wasn't just water; it was panic, pure, animalistic terror.

Pulling up. Air! A ragged, choking gasp through the sodden gag, desperate, life-giving air mixed with freezing water streaming down her face. But only for a second. Just long enough for the lungs to burn, for the terror to spike higher with the false hope.

Then down again. The shock wasn't less, it was worse. The choking, the burning, the panicked thrashing intensified. Darkness bloomed at the edges of her vision. She could feel her strength failing, the desperate fight weakening. No no no please— Thoughts fragmented into pure sensation: cold, pressure, the frantic thunder of her own heart against the wall of her chest, the futile strain of muscles.

Up again. Sputtering, coughing uselessly against the gag. The voices above were distorted, echoing. "Stubborn one, isn't she?" "Few more should do it." Bile rose in her throat, hot and acidic. Her vision blurred. The fluorescent lights overhead seemed distant, fractured stars.

The hands tightened again, unforgiving. She saw it coming, felt the pressure build. One last, utterly futile twist of resistance—

Down. This time, the struggle was shorter. The darkness rushed in faster, heavier. The roar in her ears intensified, then began to fade, replaced by a deep, hollow ringing. Her limbs felt disconnected, floating. The desperate need for air dissolved into a strange, detached resignation. Thoughts slipped away like water through fingers. Only the cold remained, sinking deep into her bones, leaching away everything... even the fear. Blackness pulsed, expanding, swallowing the light, the sound, the self...

Black Star | Radiohead

"...still fighting. Increased dosage authorized."

Sharp sting in her arm. Darkness slithering beneath her skin. Was she breathing? Impossible to tell. The world dissolved into blurry fragments, time losing all meaning. Voices drifted in and out, clinical, detached.

"...transfer papers signed by Dr. Thorne himself..."

"...last resort... resistant to standard protocols..."

"...special case... direct supervision..."

Her body was weightless, disconnected tissue floating in chemical suspension. Something vibrated beneath her – an engine? A vehicle? Her cheek pressed against cold leather, the seam digging a cruel line into her skin. Each bump in the road jolted through her bones, but her muscles remained unresponsive, paralyzed by whatever they'd injected. Only her eyelids fluttered briefly, granting fractured glimpses: dark wool uniforms, starched white cuffs, a clipboard passing between gloved hands.

"...Elysium intake expecting us at nineteen hundred hours..."

Elysium. The word penetrated the fog, carrying with it a sense of finality, of doors closing forever. She tried to speak, to protest, but her tongue was a useless weight in her mouth, her lips frozen. A whimper escaped, thin and pathetic.

"She's coming around again." A sigh. "Another 10cc."

Another sting. The darkness deepened, thickened, became absolute.

Rain on the windshield. Or tears. Or simply the last fragments of consciousness dissolving into nothing.

Buried In Water | Dead Man's Bones

Harsh light. Clinical. Brutal. Her eyelids, heavy as lead, struggled against the assault. Her limbs were still disconnected, moving only when manipulated by the impersonal hands that stripped away her soaked clothes, replaced them with stiff, institutional fabric that scraped against raw skin.

"Patient intake A-7392, transferring from Blackwood Institute." A woman's voice, brittle as autumn leaves, reading mechanically from a clipboard. "Diagnosis: Severe dissociative identity disorder with extended psychotic features. Multiple failed treatment protocols. High risk designation."

"Status?" A man's voice, disinterested.

"Non-compliant. Persistent identity delusion. Refuses recognition of established baseline personality parameters."

Cold metal pressed against her chest – a stethoscope. Fingers pried her eyelids open wider, a penlight searing directly into her pupils. She flinched, the first autonomous movement in what felt like hours.

"Responsive," the male voice noted. "Standard detention protocol?"

"No." Something in the woman's tone shifted, a hardness emerging. "Dr. Thorne has indicated specialized integration protocol. Conditioning suite preparation is already underway."

"The Styles case? That's been authorized?"

A terse "Yes" followed by the shuffle of papers. "Patient contains necessary psychological components for the current research protocol. ECT calendar established at two sessions weekly, hydrotherapy as scheduled, medication regimen as directed."

Cold fingers gripped her jaw firmly, turning her face from side to side for examination. "Hair color?" the male voice asked, confusion evident.

"Side effect of the previous electrical protocol at Blackwood. Documented but irrelevant."

Something snipped near her ear – scissors? A lock of hair cut away? She couldn't summon the strength to protest.

"Room 307, east wing. Primary assignment to Davies."

Hands slid under her armpits, lifting her from the hard examination table. Her bare feet dragged across cold tile as they half-carried, half-dragged her down a corridor that seemed to stretch into infinity. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered rhythmically, the buzzing morphing into words in her drug-addled mind: Alice... Alice... Alice...

"My... name..." she managed, her voice a desiccated husk, "...Eliza..."

A sharp, humorless laugh from one of the orderlies. "Sure it is, sweetheart. And I'm the King of England."

The woman's voice cut in coldly. "No interaction with the patient beyond established protocol. Dr. Thorne is very specific about contamination factors."

Another door, heavier than the others, groaned open. They heaved her through, her shoulder glancing painfully off the metal frame. A cell. Her cell. They deposited her unceremoniously onto a narrow cot, the thin mattress offering no cushion against the metal frame beneath.

"Processing complete," the woman announced to no one in particular, making a final note on her clipboard. "Integration Protocol Alpha begins at oh-seven-hundred."

The door slammed shut. Locks engaged – one, two, three distinct mechanisms. The sound of footsteps receded down the corridor.

Silence pressed in, thick and oppressive, broken only by the persistent electrical hum emanating from somewhere deep within the walls of Elysium, her new home. Her prison.

Her grave.