Chapter 6 Shattered Masks

# Chapter 6: Shattered Masks

The next three days blurred together in a haze of medication, therapy sessions, and constant monitoring. They called it "intensive cognitive restructuring," but it felt more like brainwashing. Each morning began with Dr. Reynolds asking the same questions about my perceptions and memories, followed by my mother's tearful pleas for me to "accept help." Jason was notably absent, which both relieved and disturbed me.

On the fourth day, something changed. I woke to find my restraints removed and a change of clothes—not hospital scrubs, but my own jeans and a sweater—laid out on the chair. My door was unlocked.

Cautiously, I ventured into the hallway. A nurse smiled as she passed. "Good morning, Maya. Breakfast is in the common room."

The common room was bright and airy, with other patients sitting at tables or lounging in comfortable chairs. It seemed almost... normal. I spotted my mother at a table by the window, sipping coffee.

"Maya," she smiled, gesturing to the chair across from her. "You look better today."

I sat, studying her face. "Where's Dr. Reynolds?"

"At a conference in San Diego. He'll be back tomorrow." She pushed a plate of fresh fruit toward me. "Eat something. We need to talk."

I picked up a strawberry, suddenly aware of how hungry I was. "About what?"

"About your progress. Dr. Reynolds believes you're stabilizing well." She reached across the table, taking my hand before I could pull away. "Maya, I know you're angry with me. But everything I've done—everything we've done—was to help you."

I wanted to scream at her, to overturn the table and run. Instead, I forced myself to remain calm. If I'd learned anything from the past weeks, it was that emotional outbursts only led to sedation and restraints.

"Help me how, exactly?" I asked quietly. "By having Jason manipulate my feelings? By gaslighting me when I caught you kissing him?"

She sighed. "The methods were... unconventional, I admit. But your father's death affected you more deeply than you've acknowledged. You began forming unhealthy attachments, creating fantasy relationships to fill the void."

"Jason wasn't a fantasy," I insisted. "Our relationship was real."

"It was controlled," she corrected gently. "A therapeutic environment where you could experience emotional connection with proper guidance."

"You mean surveillance," I said bitterly. "And manipulation."

"Call it what you will," she shrugged, "but the data doesn't lie. Your attachment patterns have been problematic since Daniel's death."

I froze. "Daniel?"

"Your father," she said, watching me closely.

"My father's name was David," I said slowly. "Not Daniel."

Something flickered across her face—surprise? Concern? "Maya, your father was Daniel Bennett. You know this."

"No," I shook my head firmly. "His name was David. David Alexander Bennett. Born February 12, 1962. Died September 8, 2019, from pancreatic cancer."

"Those are very specific details for someone who's been having memory issues," a familiar voice said.

I turned to see Jason standing behind me, dressed casually in jeans and a gray sweater. My heart betrayed me by skipping a beat at the sight of him.

"Memory issues?" I echoed. "Is that the latest diagnosis you've invented for me?"

He sat beside my mother, his posture tense. "Your mother is concerned about your cognitive state."

"My cognitive state is fine," I insisted. "It's my trust that's broken."

Jason and my mother exchanged a look—that same silent communication that had infuriated me before.

"What?" I demanded. "What aren't you telling me?"

My mother sighed. "Dr. Reynolds wanted to wait, but... Maya, we've been noticing inconsistencies in your recollections. Not just about your relationship with Jason, but about fundamental aspects of your life."

"Like my father's name," I said flatly. "Which I know perfectly well."

"Maya," Jason said gently, "your father's death certificate lists him as Daniel James Bennett. I've seen it myself."

A chill ran down my spine. Were they trying to make me doubt my own memories now? The manipulation had reached a new level of cruelty.

"This is insane," I said, pushing my chair back. "I know my own father's name."

"Do you?" my mother challenged. "Because you've been mixing up a lot of details lately. Dr. Reynolds believes it might be a side effect of your emotional trauma—creating alternate realities where things make more sense to you."

I looked between them, a new suspicion forming. "This is part of the experiment, isn't it? Trying to make me doubt my own memories now?"

Jason leaned forward. "There is no experiment, Maya. That's what we've been trying to help you understand."

Something in his eyes caught my attention—a slight tension, a barely perceptible shift of his gaze toward my mother. It was subtle, but after months of studying his every expression, I recognized it: he was lying, but not completely.

In that moment, I made a decision. If I was going to get out of this situation, I needed to play their game better than they did.

"I'm confused," I admitted, letting my shoulders slump. "Everything feels... mixed up."

My mother's expression softened immediately. "That's understandable, sweetheart. The medication can cause disorientation at first."

"Maybe I do need help," I continued, carefully gauging their reactions. "I just... I want to understand what's happening to me."

The relief on my mother's face was immediate and obvious. Jason's response was more measured—a slight narrowing of his eyes, as if he wasn't quite convinced by my sudden capitulation.

"That's a very positive step, Maya," my mother said warmly. "Dr. Reynolds will be so pleased with your progress."

"Can I talk to Jason?" I asked, looking down at my hands. "Alone? I think... I need to apologize for my behavior."

Another exchange of glances between them. Finally, my mother nodded. "Of course. I need to make some calls anyway." She squeezed my hand before leaving. "I'm proud of you, Maya."

When we were alone, I continued my performance, keeping my voice soft and uncertain. "I'm sorry for running away. For fighting against the treatment."

Jason studied me for a long moment. "What changed?"

"I've been thinking a lot," I said carefully. "About dad... about us... about everything that's happened. Maybe I have been creating fantasies to cope with loss."

He leaned back, still wary. "That's a significant shift in perspective."

"The medication helps," I offered. "Makes things clearer."

"Does it?" He raised an eyebrow. "Because you haven't had any medication for the past twenty-four hours. Dr. Reynolds wanted to observe your unmedicated baseline before the next phase of treatment."

I faltered, caught in the lie. "I..."

"You're playing us," he said quietly. "Pretending to comply while looking for a way out."

My heart raced. I'd underestimated him. "Can you blame me? You've been manipulating me for months."

Instead of denying it, he glanced around the common room, then leaned closer. "Meet me in the garden in twenty minutes. Alone."

Before I could respond, he stood and walked away, leaving me confused and wary. Was this another trap? Or something else entirely?

Twenty minutes later, curiosity overcame caution. I found Jason in the facility's small Japanese garden, sitting on a stone bench beside a koi pond. No one else was around.

"Thank you for coming," he said as I approached.

"What is this about?" I remained standing, ready to run if necessary.

"I needed to talk to you somewhere without surveillance." He gestured to the bench beside him. "Please."

Reluctantly, I sat, maintaining distance between us. "Talk about what?"

"About the truth," he said quietly. "About what's really happening here."

My pulse quickened. "Which is?"

"Your mother isn't who you think she is." His voice was barely above a whisper. "Neither is Dr. Reynolds. And I..." he hesitated, "I'm caught in the middle."

"What do you mean?"

"Your instincts were right, Maya. This is an experiment—but not the one you think." He glanced around nervously. "Your mother was once Dr. Reynolds' patient. Years ago, before you were born. He... did things to her. Experimental treatments that no ethics board would approve."

I stared at him, trying to process this new information. "What kind of treatments?"

"Memory manipulation. Cognitive restructuring. The same things they're doing to you now." He ran a hand through his hair. "When she came to him after your father died, I thought she genuinely wanted help for you. I didn't know about their history, about her obsession with his methods."

"Why are you telling me this now?" I asked suspiciously. "After everything you've done?"

"Because it's gone too far," he said, genuine distress in his eyes. "Reynolds is planning to use more aggressive techniques on you—ones that could cause permanent psychological damage. Your mother has authorized everything."

"And you're suddenly concerned?" I couldn't keep the bitterness from my voice. "After months of lying to me, manipulating me, helping them lock me up here?"

"I deserve that," he admitted. "But Maya... not everything between us was a lie."

"Don't," I warned. "Don't try that now."

"I'm not trying anything," he insisted. "I'm telling you the truth. Yes, I was recruited for this project. Yes, I followed the protocols at first. But somewhere along the way..." he reached for my hand, and to my surprise, I didn't pull away, "I fell in love with you. For real."

I wanted to believe him. God help me, some part of me still wanted to trust him. But I'd been burned too many times.

"Prove it," I challenged. "If you really care about me, help me get out of here."

"It's not that simple," he said. "We need to be smart about this. If we just run, they'll find us. We need leverage."

"What kind of leverage?"

"Information," he said. "I've been collecting evidence—recordings of sessions, copies of the unauthorized protocols, Reynolds' notes on your mother from years ago."

Hope sparked within me. "Where is it?"

"Hidden," he said. "But I can get to it. The question is, what do we do with it? Going to the police might not work—Reynolds has powerful connections."

A plan began to form in my mind—risky, but potentially effective. "We don't need the police. We need to turn them against each other."

Jason's eyes widened. "How?"

"My mother trusts Dr. Reynolds completely, right? She thinks he's helping me the same way he 'helped' her years ago." I leaned closer. "What if she found out he was using her too? That his interest in me has nothing to do with my wellbeing and everything to do with continuing whatever he started with her?"

A slow smile spread across Jason's face. "Create division in the ranks."

"Exactly," I nodded. "And while they're fighting each other..."

"We gather the evidence and get you out," he finished.

For the first time in weeks, I felt something like hope. But caution kept me from surrendering to it completely.

"How do I know this isn't another manipulation?" I asked. "Another 'controlled trigger event' to test my reactions?"

Jason took a deep breath. "You don't. You have no reason to trust me after everything that's happened. But I'm asking you to anyway." He squeezed my hand. "I want to make this right, Maya."

I studied his face, searching for signs of deception. What I saw instead was fear, determination, and something that looked remarkably like love.

"Okay," I said finally. "Let's do this. But Jason—if you betray me again, I swear I'll burn this whole place down with all of us in it."

He nodded solemnly. "I believe you. And I wouldn't blame you." His eyes held mine. "This ends now. We're taking back control."

As we sat there, planning our counterattack against the people who had manipulated us both, I realized that the game had changed. I was no longer just a subject in their experiment—I was becoming the experimenter. And they had no idea what was coming.