Promises of Oblivion
© Luciana Rielle 2026. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the author’s written permission.
⚠️ Content Warning: This story contains dark themes including addiction, abuse, coercion, and psychological trauma. Reader discretion is advised.
“You were such a good girl.”
The orderly’s voice was thick, almost affectionate, as his fingers stroked through Ivy Morgan’s tangled platinum hair. Her cheek stayed pressed to the cold concrete wall of the isolation room, the institutional beige paint chipped and stained from years of too many bodies, too many breakdowns. Her sweatpants lay pooled around her ankles. The air smelled of bleach, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of sex.
She didn’t move or speak. Her dead green eyes stared at nothing.
He smirked, palm cracking sharply against her bare ass. The sting barely registered.
His hand moved lower, stroking along her spine like she was a pet that had performed well. “Always so quiet for me. Makes it easy, doesn’t it?”
From his pocket he pulled a small plastic baggie. Two round white pills glinted under the buzzing fluorescent light. He held them in front of her lips.
“Open.”
Ivy parted her mouth without hesitation. He placed the pills on her tongue, two perfect little promises of oblivion. She closed her lips around his fingers for a second, then swallowed dry. The familiar bitterness slid down her throat.
“Such a sweet little junkie.”
The words floated through her mind as the first warm wave hit. Her eyes fluttered shut. Bliss. Thick, syrupy, wrapping around the raw ache between her legs and the heavier ache in her chest until both felt distant, unimportant. The high bloomed behind her eyes in soft pinks and golds, melting the sharp edges of the world.
He leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to the side of her neck, right over the fading bruise from last week. “Clean yourself up before rounds. I’ll be back soon, princess.”
The door clicked shut. The lock turned.
Ivy stayed exactly where she was, forehead against the wall, pants still around her ankles. Warm cum slowly dripped down the inside of her thigh. She didn’t care. She never did anymore. The high was already cresting, lifting her out of her body until she was floating somewhere above the dirty mattress, above the girl who used to scream and fight and beg.
For the first time in days, the noise in her head went quiet.
She finally pulled her sweatpants up with slow, clumsy fingers, not bothering to wipe herself. The fabric clung uncomfortably, but discomfort was a concept that belonged to someone else right now. She shuffled to the thin bed bolted to the floor and collapsed face-down, arms tucked under her chest.
Hours blurred.
The high held her gently, rocking her in that perfect numb place where nothing hurt and nothing mattered. She drifted in and out, sometimes upside down on the mattress with her legs kicked up against the wall, staring at the water-stained ceiling like it was a galaxy. Time lost all meaning. There was only the soft golden fog and the distant sound of someone crying down the hall.
Then the lock clicked again.
Ivy turned her head lazily. Three men stood in the doorway, two big orderlies in white scrubs and a nurse with a clipboard. One of them sighed like this was routine.
“Jesus, Morgan. You look like shit. Get up.”
She blinked slowly, the high still cushioning every thought. “...Leaving?”
The taller orderly snorted. “Yeah. Someone finally paid your very expensive tab. Your brother’s here to collect you.”
They didn’t wait for her to move. Rough hands grabbed her arms and hauled her off the bed. Her legs barely worked, but the high made it funny instead of terrifying. She laughed under her breath, a broken, airy sound that earned her an eye roll from the nurse.
“Easy,” the nurse muttered. “Family’s waiting. Let’s not make a scene.”
A female attendant appeared with a bundle of clothes. They stripped Ivy efficiently, like she was a doll, wiping her down with rough clothes that smelled of antiseptic. Fresh sweatpants and a plain gray hoodie that swallowed her thin frame. Someone brushed her hair back into a messy ponytail. The whole process felt like it was happening to someone else.
When they were done, the first orderly gave her a pat on the ass, the same casual ownership as before. “We’ll see you soon, Ivy. You always come back.”
She didn’t answer. She just let them guide her down the long white hallway, fluorescent lights blurring overhead. The exit doors hissed open.
Cold night air hit her face instantly. Rain shimmered across the black pavement outside, and beneath the awning, a sleek black limo waited with its engine quietly humming.
Jonathan Morgan stood beside it in a tailored coat, arms crossed, looking every inch the disappointed heir. His eyes flicked over her stringy hair, hollow cheeks, and his lip curled in pure disgust but he said nothing.
One of the guards opened the limo door for her. Ivy climbed inside without looking back. The leather seat felt cold against her skin. Jonathan got in after her, sitting as far away as possible. The door shut with a heavy thunk.
The limo pulled away from the rehab center, tires hissing softly over the wet road. Outside, city lights blurred past the tinted windows, gold and neon smearing across the darkness.
Ivy rested her head against the window, the last traces of the high still humming through her veins. She felt light. Untethered. Almost at peace.
Jonathan stared straight ahead, jaw tight, still saying nothing.
And for the first time in longer than she could remember, Ivy didn’t care where they were taking her.
She had no idea she was being delivered straight into the arms of something far worse than any rehab.
Something that would never let her go.
