Hysteria

The sharp sting of antiseptic hit Alastor’s nostrils first. Then came the pain: a pounding in his skull that throbbed in sync with the deep ache radiating from his side. Each shallow breath sent fresh jolts through his ribs.

He forced his eyes open. The world swam into view, nausea churning in his gut. Peeling plaster. A lazy ceiling fan stirred stagnant air. Weak sunlight filtered through grime-smeared windows. Bleached sheets scraped against skin that felt... wrong.

A man stood near the window, his white coat stark against the gloom. He scribbled in a leather-bound journal, voice low and clinical:

“Mixed race… vagrant… likely a runaway. Dressed in men’s attire…” A sigh. “Tragic. Probably provoked the assault. A family failing.”

No wonder she was attacked, Vox thought. Likely raised without proper schooling—never taught a woman’s place. Or worse, fed dangerous ideas about independence. He had dealt with that type before. Harder cases.

He flipped back through his notes, recalling the alley: the broken body, blood pooling around her. Two gunshot wounds. Skull trauma. Fractured ribs. “No purse. No identification.”

Behavior indicative of constitutional inferiority. The police hadn’t even bothered with an investigation. Why waste resources on a nameless girl—penniless, indigent? She was invisible.

Abandoned, no doubt. And now she lay in a hospital ward under his care. A prime candidate for observation and therapeutic intervention.

Assault. The word landed like a blow.

Alastor gasped as he shifted. Pain exploded through his side; a ragged cough tore from his throat. Something was wrong. His body felt... foreign. Lighter. Smaller. His chest rose and fell in a strange, labored way.

The man turned at the sound. His features slid into a practiced mask of concern. Cold, bright blue eyes behind square spectacles locked onto Alastor with unsettling intensity.

“Ah. Awake at last,” he said gently—almost tenderly. “Such lovely brown eyes.” He smiled. Like a startled doe, Vox thought.

“You’re safe now, dear.”

Alastor flinched. The doctor’s tone was overly soothing and excessively careful, similar to how one might speak to a frightened animal. He tried to speak, but only a dry rasp escaped.

“Water,” Vox ordered. A nurse stepped forward. He accepted the cup and cradled Alastor’s head with unsettling gentleness. The water tasted metallic and tepid, but Alastor drank it greedily.

“There we are,” Vox murmured. “Much better. Now we can begin a proper evaluation.” He pulled a chair close, crossed one leg over the other, and flipped open his journal again. His eyes gleamed behind the glass.

Alastor stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Then, barely audible: “Alastor.”

Vox raised an eyebrow. “A man’s name?” He tapped his pen thoughtfully. “How… unconventional.” He jotted a note: Adopts masculine nomenclature. Indicates rejection of femininity or identity disturbance. Source? Family name?

“Is that your given name? Or your family name?”

Alastor blinked, confused. “It’s just Alastor.”

No grasp of naming conventions. Self-named? Untutored. Vox’s pen scratched again.

“May I have your last name, miss?” he asked gently.

Alastor’s heart skipped. Did he call me—? No, he must have misheard.

“I don’t…” he mumbled. “I don’t remember. Just Alastor.”

Vox nodded, sympathetic. “That’s all right, dear.”

No memory of family name. Dissociation? Fugue state?

“Age?”

“Twenty.”

“Marital status? Engaged? Being courted?”

Vox hoped she would say no, but he had contingencies prepared in case she was married.

Vox hid his shock when the young woman looked at him and laughed.

Alastor laughed softly, a bitter edge to it. “Look at me. I’ve never even been kissed. I’d be lucky if anyone wanted to date me.”

Unconsciously, Alastor puffed out his cheeks in a pout. “I’m too ugly for anyone to want to marry me.”

Vox’s eyes gleamed. “Ah. That explains much.”

Nulliparous. Presexual. Likely a virgin. Emotional instability suspected—sexual development arrested by trauma/identity crisis.

“What the hell is ‘courting,’ anyway?” Alastor muttered.

Vox stopped writing. So young. So lost. He patted Alastor’s hand.

“I’m looking, my dear. You’re quite beautiful. And courting is the process of pursuing someone for marriage. Like dating, but more sincere.”

The nurse smiled quietly behind him, admiring his kindness—how gently he spoke to this broken girl, how he paid for her treatment, and how he gave her a private room.

Why does he talk like an old-fashioned dictionary? It’s 2025, Alastor thought. Why not just say dating? Alastor pulled his hand back.

He tried to breathe deeply—pain flared again.

Rejects gender norms. Entrenched male identification. Endocrine evaluation indicated.

“Fuck,” Alastor whispered. “What happened to me? I can’t remember.”

Vox’s gaze sharpened. Crude language. Distress. High suggestibility. Likely deficient schooling.

“Do you know the year?”

“2025,” Alastor muttered. His eyelids drooped. “I don’t feel good.”

Chronological delusion (fixed belief: 2025). Psychosis suspected.

“My dear,” Vox said smoothly, “just a few more questions. You’re doing very well. Then I’ll give you something to help you rest.”

“Okay…”

“Do you know where you are?”

“A hospital.” Alastor sighed. “Can we stop now? I’m tired.”

Vox leaned in, voice low and intimate. “Just a few more.

Do you know who the President of the United States is?”

Alastor frowned. “The orange guy.”

Vox paused. Presidential misidentification.Confabulation. Delusional framework intact. High suggestibility. Prime therapeutic candidate.

His pen hovered.

Attractive. Potential for compliant attachment.

Alastor couldn’t remember how he got here. His body felt alien. He remembered rain, screaming… blood.

Vox closed his journal. “I’m Dr. Vox. You’ve suffered severe trauma—gunshots, head injury, fractured ribs. But you’re safe now. I found you. I’ll make sure nothing happens to you here. I’ll protect you.”

Safe. The word curdled in Alastor’s stomach.

He pushed against the mattress. Pain seared through his chest. His hands—too small. Skin too soft. Something was very, very wrong.

Vox reopened the journal, pen poised.

“Now, standard procedure. We need a full medical history to treat you effectively.”

Alastor nodded weakly.

“Childhood illnesses? Measles? Mumps? Scarlet fever?”

Alastor rasped, his throat tight, “Chickenpox. When I was eight.”

“Any chronic conditions?”

“No.”

Vox’s eyes sharpened. “Very well. Now, feminine health is crucial."

Alastor stiffened. He hadn’t misheard.

“When was your last menses?”

“My… what?”

“Your period." Vox clarified, tapping the pen against the paper. Regularity? Duration? Pain?”

“I don’t… I don’t have one.” Even to himself, it sounded like a lie. His trembling hands pressed against his chest—and froze. Soft swell. Foreign. Terrifying.

“No menses at all?” Vox asked, watching Alastor closely.

Alastor glared. Vox smiled indulgently.

Claims primary amenorrhea. Possibly trauma-induced suppression. Investigate further.

"I said I don’t have one," Alastor whispered, the words cracking under the weight of desperation.

His pen scratched across the page. He looked up, vivid blue eyes piercing. Noting Alastor’s hands still pressed defensively to her chest, he added, “Do you experience breast tenderness? Do you wear a brassiere for support?”

“This isn’t right. I’m a man!” Alastor cried. “I shouldn’t even have these!”

“Mmm.” Vox barely looked up. “Such utterances only feed the illness. We must not indulge them.”

“And what the hell is a brassiere?! Can you speak normally? I don’t understand half of what you’re saying!”

Vox’s lips thinned.

Support absent when found. Must examine to rule out injury or dysmorphia. Maternal neglect is evident—patients are unaware of basic anatomy.

“Reproductive history: any pregnancies? Miscarriages or stillbirths?"

Alastor recoiled as if struck. "What?! No! Never! What the hell are you asking?!" His voice rose, edged with panic.

“Alastor,” Vox said calmly, “you’ve suffered head trauma. Denial is common. Hysteria often emerges in unaccompanied women—under duress."

Alastor blinked, bewildered. “Hysteria? What even is that?!”

Vox continued smoothly, cutting Alastor off. “Have you ever been intimate with a man? Or has anyone forced such relations upon you?”

Alastor stared, horror dawning cold and absolute. "What?"

"Intercourse. Sex," Vox clarified, calm and utterly condescending, as if explaining to a child.

“NO!” Alastor screamed. "What part of ‘never been kissed’ do you not get? That I am—" His voice broke, swallowed by a wave of shame and confusion. "No one would ever want me. Like that."

Vox patted Alastor’s hand with tenderness. "Essential questions. I must ask them."

His pen moved swiftly.

Claims no sexual history. Virginity presumed. Suggests repression—ideal for therapeutic bonding.

The patient also demonstrates significant problems with self-esteem related to appearance. The patient is comely, yet perceives herself as unattractive. Developed fixations and false identities are likely coping mechanisms for unmet emotional needs.

“Slow down. My head hurts. None of this makes sense.”

Alastor was feeling dizzy.

“I know.” Vox’s voice softened—terrifyingly tender. “But healing requires answers.

Did your mother suffer menstrual irregularities? Mental illness?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Alastor’s voice scaled upwards in sheer panic.

"Stop using words I do not understand! Just let me sleep!"

Alastor felt suffocated. He let out a gasp, shaking his head violently as fragmented memories surged—rain. Blood. Dying. "No, God, no!" he cried, tears streaming down his face.

"I was not born like this! I was six feet tall! I had a job! I am a man!"

His pen scratched decisively. Delusions of masculinity. Severe identity fracture. Possible schizophrenic onset post-trauma or profound psychosexual regression. Vox’s expression softened.

He turned to the nurse. “Prepare the room for a full pelvic examination and massage. Set up a neurological assessment for tomorrow."

Alastor tried to move, but pain pinned him. “You’re not listening! I’m not crazy! This isn’t my body!”

Vox was beside him instantly. He leaned in, invading Alastor’s space.

“You begged me in that alley,” he whispered. “Don’t let me die. Save me. Do not leave me.” His vivid blue eyes—those of a man utterly, terrifyingly convinced of his own righteousness—held Alastor captive.

“I made you a promise. I never break promises, my dear. I’ll protect you—even from yourself.”

The nurse stepped forward, syringe in hand, its needle catching the light.

“No—please!” Alastor sobbed. “Believe me!”

“Shhh. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.” Vox’s thumb brushed Alastor’s jawline. “I believe that you believe it. But that’s just the illness talking.”

The needle slid in. "See?" he whispered, the word echoing from a distance. "Safe."

He stroked Alastor’s bandaged head. “Rest now. The nurse will prepare you. I’ll return shortly with my instruments.”

As the drug took hold, Alastor’s eyes glazed over. A slack smile tugged at his lips. Vox smiled back—a predator satisfied. He left the room with one final, possessive glance at the helpless body on the bed.