Thread by @Trauma_Posting

Calling the Ashford Institute's Crisis Line

#nsfwtwt #medfet #kidnap #dark implied self harm, feeling suicidal. No sex, just sinister.

"Hello, you're through to the Ashford Crisis Line, how can we help you today?" A soothing androgynous voice answers your call.

"Uh...Fuck. Um..." You struggle to begin the conversation.

"Take all the time you need. Why don't you take a few deep breaths for me, and then we start with how you're feeling right now?"

"Um. Really bad." It's difficult to be your eloquent self when you're feeling this devastated.

"Could you say more on that for me?"

"Well I, uh. I feel like I don't want to be here." You sniff and let out a strained sob as you attempt to hold back another flood of tears

Hours of crying have already made your face all puffy.

"You don't want to be here? I see. Can you tell me if you've done anything to hurt yourself? It's okay if you have, I just want to make sure you're safe." The voice maintains a soft, even tone. It makes answering truthfully-

so much easier, almost like they're pulling the secrets out of you.

"I...yeah, but just a bit." You glance over at the assorted medical supplies you awkwardly patched yourself up with. It's a mess, just like your arm.

"Okay. Since you've already hurt yourself, I have a duty of care. I need to send someone to check on you."

"No, please don't do that. I don't want anyone to see me." You hate being a burden. You don't want to cause trouble for anyone.

"I'm sorry. Legally, I have to. If you refuse, I'll have to pass this information onto the police, and I promise they won't be as kind as we will be. Our staff are experts in this kind of thing."

You stay silent for a few moments. "...okay," you finally reply.

"Perfect. We have your address. Please, just stay where you are. We will be with you shortly, and we can deal with all of your problems." If you had been more cognizant, you might have picked up on a mental health hotline being able to track you down in a few minutes.

After an eerily short amount of time, you hear a knock from downstairs. It takes considerable effort for you to get up, but you manage to get to your front door. Despite your anxiety, you force yourself to open it. The person on the phone had been calming, putting you at ease.

A man and a woman stand in front of you, both of them smartly dressed. "Hello, sweetie. If you don't mind coming with us, we want to do a quick physical checkup before we have more of a conversation." The woman gestures behind her, stepping out of your way.

There's something uncomfortable about this situation that you can't quite put your finger on. However, you're in too deep, so you step into the cool night air. The man walks ahead of you, and the woman behind, putting a comforting hand on your shoulder. Or perhaps a hand to keep-

you from getting away.

You're led to what looks like an ambulance from the outside. When the man opens the door, it's difficult to see inside, but he gestures for you to step in. A soft push from behind prompts you to step up into the darkness.

The pair follow you, closing the door behind them. You hear the sound of a heavy lock clicking into place. That worry continues to creep in, and it's only made worse by a light being flicked on. What looks like a cross between the interior of an ambulance and a prison van is-

where you find yourself. Hesitantly, you take a step back, bumping into the woman.

"Don't worry. Like you were told on the phone, we're here to help you. We're going to get you the help you need. Please have a seat," the man speaks, gesturing to a chair.

Too timid to cause a scene, you comply, sitting down. The chair has a seatbelt as you'd expect, but you notice medical restraints on the armrests and next to your ankles.

Along the walls, you see various instruments and paraphernalia. At first, you think it's all medical, but you start to pick out a few things like handcuffs, some kind of gag. Is that a stun gun?

The man steps in front of you, fastening your seatbelt for you. "Don't worry about anything in here. We have to deal with some very unwell people who can be violent. All of this is just to keep them from hurting themselves or someone else, but you're not going to give us any-

trouble, are you?" Everything he says sounds reasonable, but there's a sinister note behind it all that you're finding it difficult to see clearly.

"N-no..." you reply, unable to refuse. You know there's the threat of using anything in here on you behind his words, but he makes it sound so reasonable. It's a strange sense of fear and complacency.

"Good. We have a few questions for you while our driver gets us moving." The man taps on a blacked out divider. After a moment, you feel the rumble of the engine. Another moment, movement.

The pair produce a series of forms. Each of them asks question after question. In the beginning, they're what you might expect. "How did you hurt yourself? Did anything trigger this? Does anyone know you called us?" That kind of thing.

Over time, stranger questions creep in. "Have you ever felt like you need someone to keep you sane? What have your previous relationships been like? What would you give up to never feel this way again?"

With the mix of questions you're bombarded with, you don't have much time to think, or grow too concerned by the sinister undertones. As weird as this might be, you called a public mental health hotline. It can't actually be some sinister organisation that kidnaps the mentally-

unwell, those that won't be missed, and the weak of will, right? They'd be shut down by the police in an instant. Surely that can't be the case. It's just a bit of a weird thing, that's all. Nothing to be concerned about.

The man and the woman confer quitely for a few moments. The sound of the engine stops you hearing what they have to say. It seems as though they come to some kind of consensus.

Unbeknownst to you, the woman writes "I recommend reconditioning. Patient needs all control mentally taken away. Offered little resistance, likely to be compliant. No security concerns." at the bottom of the final form.

Calling that number may well have saved your life. Your stay at the Ashford Institute will end your life as you know it, however.