Highly Invasive Respiratory Therapy

Elise walks in with that fresh tan still on her skin. One week later she's back, pale under the lights, coughing through something the doctors only half understand. They tell her the treatment is experimental. She nods, signs the paper, and they slide a clear PVC bag over her head. It seals tight at the neck. She breathes because the machine lets her. The ventilator hisses steady. Wires run from between her legs where electrodes sit deep inside, and two more bite down on each nipple, pinching hard enough to stay put when her chest rises. Her breasts are wrapped in rope, tight loops squeezing the flesh until the skin darkens. Arms pulled back, wrists cuffed to the chair frame. She can't move much, only twitch. A monitor screen glows beside her. Heartbeat line jumps every time the current spikes. The nurse watches the numbers, twists a dial, watches again. Her pulse climbs, drops, climbs harder. The bag fogs, clears, fogs. She comes without warning, legs jerking against the straps, the line on the screen spiking sharp and fast. He leaves the current on. She comes again, smaller, messier, the bag sucking tight against her open mouth. He checks the leads, adjusts the breast clamps one notch tighter, and glances back at the monitor like he's reading the weather. Another turn of the dial. The line jumps. Elise shakes.