Imogen had won last year’s costume competition at the annual Halloween spectacular hosted by her mother, Charlotte Sinclair, at their family estate, and she was determined to defend her crown.

She had a reputation for creativity, and it was important to her to save face.

“I can’t just come dressed as any old scrub like you, Mousey,” she said. “People have certain expectations of me.”

It sounded stressful. I was glad nobody expected anything from me. Most of the time, Imogen chose my outfit, usually something that would accessorize and elevate her own.

Last year, she and her friends thought it would be hilarious if I dressed as my namesake. They found me a slutty polka-dot Minne Mouse dress, matching hair bow, clogs, and mouse ears. With my skinny legs and flat chest, I felt completely exposed.

It had given Imogen the idea to dress as a sexy cat. She chose a sleek, black leather bodysuit with a tail attached to the back, knee-high boots, cat ears, and a whip. She locked my wrists in cuffs behind my back and clipped a leash to a collar around my neck. She called her display “Minnie’s capture.” Everyone had a great time with it. I smiled along, trying not to blush as she paraded me around, desperate to be seen as part of the joke rather than the butt of it.

The night crescendoed with her releasing me from my leash, pretending I had escaped so she could hunt me down. It made for a great show as everyone watched, laughed, and applauded when she cornered me, threatening to strike me with her whip. I slid down the wall to my knees, pleading in a whisper for her not to hurt me. She grinned, dangling her leash. I shuffled back to her feet, and she hooked it back to my collar. Everyone cheered, and she directed me back to the dancefloor where the judge awarded her costume the victory. That showpiece moment had clinched her the title.

This year, she was coming dressed as a doctor. I was to be her patient. It all sounded fine until she revealed the straight jacket and standing gurney she had found for me.

Mom had been in the psychiatric hospital for a year now. She had suffered a severe nervous breakdown during one of her shifts at Sinclair’s, the elite restaurant owned by the Sinclair family: Imogen’s family.

Mom had made a huge scene, quitting her position, declaring her hatred for the owner, Imogen’s mom, Charlotte, blaming her for overworking Dad and causing his heart attack, accusing her of ruining her life. She went as far as threatening to burn the whole building down. Charlotte’s lawyer, Gael LeMarr, made it clear that if I did not commit her, then prison was the only alternative.

It was a blessing that Charlotte volunteered to pay for private care. Mom had no insurance. Without Charlotte, Mom would have been stuck going to a state facility. Imogen warned me about all the awful things they did to patients in those places. I was lucky to have Imogen as my best friend. I would have been so lost during this awful time without her.

Mom begged me not to leave her alone in that place. She screamed that there was nothing wrong with her. That she was thinking clearly for the first time in years. All she wanted was a fresh start, free from the restaurant, free from Charlotte. She clawed at me, begging for me to release her. She preferred prison. She said we could run away together. Escape it all. When I asked her what she meant, she ranted and raved about what a monster Imogen was. That she was just like her mother. She said that she was so sorry for introducing me to her. She never meant for any of this to happen. Something about a goddess cult. Egypt. A golden ankh. It was hard to comprehend what any of it meant.

I was prevented from questioning her further as the hospital aides entered her padded cell, restrained her to the floor, and pacified her with an injection into her neck.

I still have nightmares about that day. It was the last time I had seen her. She looked so scared. She was pleading with me until the very last moment. It was awful. I cried myself to sleep every night thinking about it. I tried to tell myself that this was for her own good. That this was her chance to heal. That I was a good daughter. That she didn’t really hate me. That everything would go back to normal one of these days. But the truth was, I had no idea when I might ever see her again.

Dr. Lexington was vague about the potential timeline for when I might be allowed to visit. During my last update, she had recommended an experimental electro-shock therapy. She assured me it was safe. The principle was to induce a controlled seizure that would alter her brain chemistry and form new neural connections. If I wanted to expedite her recovery, this was the only option. It sounded like an extreme measure. I said I needed time to think it over. Mom already hated me for committing her. I worried she would never forgive me if I signed off on her electrocution too.

I do trust that Dr. Lexington knows what she’s talking about. Not only is she at the top of her field, but she is a personal friend of Charlotte. Apparently, the two of them were in high school together back in the early 90s. Charlotte said they were in rival friend groups back then but have gotten much closer since. It was reassuring to know Dr. Lexington held a personal stake in my mom’s care. That could only be a good thing. It was just difficult to think of my mom being electrocuted.

Of course, being financially dependent on Charlotte for my mom’s continued care is not without its challenges. I know Charlotte could potentially cut her funding at any moment. That would be disastrous. I could never afford Mom’s care alone, not on the salary Imogen pays me as her Personal Assistant.

As a popular Influencer, Imogen requires a lot of assistance. I pack her luggage, book her flights, purchase gifts on her behalf, and manage her appointments, among a whole host of personal care responsibilities, cleaning, cooking, and laundry. The list is never-ending. But I’m grateful Imogen has given me this opportunity. I have no qualifications to my name. It would be impossible for me to find anything better. Plus, she allows me to live in her deluxe apartment in the center of the city completely rent-free!

It depresses me sometimes when I consider just how reliant I am on Imogen. She pays my salary and keeps a roof over my head. Her mom pays for my mom’s medical care. If Imogen ever tires of me…no, I mustn’t ever think like that. The consequences of getting on Imogen’s bad side are too terrible.

Imogen could be temperamental and emotional at times, especially when she doesn’t get her own way, but as her best friend since childhood, I know how to pacify her tantrums before they escalate. The trick was to be as passive as possible. Experience told me that standing up for myself only made the situation worse. I take what she throws at me with grace and humor, never daring to challenge her. It was why, despite our obvious differences in wealth, beauty, and popularity, we remain the best of friends.

As a kid, with Mom and Dad working such long hours at the restaurant, I needed somewhere to go after school. Charlotte suggested that I go to her house as a play friend for Imogen since we were the same age. There were plenty of maids to take care of us, and it saved my parents money on child care.

It worked out great. I knew right away that Imogen was a girl who was used to getting her own way. We played the games she wanted to play, watched the movies she wanted to watch, and ate what she wanted to eat. Having never had a friend before, I was just happy someone wanted to hang out with me.

There was only one time I defied her. I had wanted a different flavor of ice cream for her. She had attacked me, pulling my hair, kicking me in the shins, and screaming that she would tell her mom about me. That she was done with me. That she hated me. She screamed how stupid and poor I was. It took two maids to pull her off of me.

After she had calmed down, the maids brought me to her in order for me to apologize. It was hard for me because I knew I hadn’t really done anything wrong. My body was still sore from her beating. She was sitting in an overly large chair with a large tub of her favorite ice cream. The maids had done everything they could to calm her, but still, they looked on nervously. I don’t blame them for taking Imogen’s side. Imogen could so easily have had them fired.

I knew my parents could not afford child care. I knew how upset they would be if Imogen kicked me out. After begging for her forgiveness, Imogen eventually agreed to forgive me, holding out her spoon for me to lick clean, which I did on my knees, happily accepting her gesture of peace.

I never dared challenge her again.

It was perhaps why she was so annoyed at me when I tried to express my discomfort at her costume idea.

“Are you kidding me right now?” she said, angrily pointing her finger in my apologetic face. “I’ve already bought everything! Are you gonna pay me back for all this?”

My eyes watered, and my bottom lip quivered. “S-sorry, Imogen,” I answered in the same mousey way that had helped cement my nickname. “It’s just that with Mom in the hospital, maybe now isn’t the best time for-”

“Oh my god!” She stomped her foot on the hardwood floor, making me jump. “It’s just a joke. Can’t you take a joke?”

I hung my head in shame, trying to control my tears.

“Let’s put it this way,” she said, folding her arms and glaring at me with a sulky pout.

“You can either play along, or I’ll go to the party without you. Maybe I’ll tell my mom that this friendship clearly means more to me than you. Is that what you want?”

I shook my head. “S-sorry Imogen,” I mumbled, fully aware of what her threat really meant. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’ll be a great gag.”

My surrender brought a smirk to her lips. “Aw, poor Mousey. It’s okay. I still love you. Even if you do piss me off sometimes.”

“Th-thank you, Imogen. I love you too.”

She pulled me close for a hug. I closed my eyes, absorbing her perfume. Warm vanilla and amber. No matter how upset I am, smelling her always helps my mood.

Imogen’s costume consisted of a short, form-fitting white lab coat over a royal blue blouse. The plunging neckline drew attention to her cleavage, creating a sleek and flattering silhouette. Stretchy black leggings defined her curves and along with her black ankle boots, elongated her legs, providing her with extra height and confidence. Her blond hair was styled in a sophisticated ponytail, and oversized faux glasses emphasized her pretty eyes and long lashes, making her appear intelligent and captivating. A stethoscope was draped around her neck, and an oversized syringe was holstered in her belt like a gun.

Josh, her latest boyfriend, was also part of her costume. She had found him some green scrubs and a mock ID badge. She called him her technician, but from the way the scrubs snugly fitted to his muscular frame, highlighting his broad chest and arms, it was obvious his role was as my handler.

Imogen enjoyed role-playing her position of power over Josh, ordering him around like he really was her assistant. She had him place the straight jacket over my body. I could feel his strength as he grabbed my skinny wrists to pull them through the sleeves. Next, he forcefully crossed my arms over my chest and threaded the straps through the buckles at my sides and back, pulling each one tightly to lock my arms in place. The tension forced my posture into an inelegant hunch. My movements were severely restricted. I had thought the jacket would just be for show. I had no idea it was real until I found myself stuck inside.

I was helpless as Josh positioned me upright on the standing gurney with my back against the metal frame. He fastened the thick leather straps around my ankles, thighs, torso, shoulders, neck, and forehead, pulling each one to its fullest extent to ensure I remained immobile.

Imogen had already affixed my hair into a disheveled mess. She had chopped off a few inches, leaving uneven lengths. I looked like a crazy person from a black-and-white picture from one of those old Catholic asylums.

“Aw, it’s okay, Mousey,” she had said, trailing her fingers through it, admiring her handiwork. “It’ll grow back. And look how insane you look now. Hey, do you think your mom has a haircut like this now too?” She laughed at her joke, and I smiled along, trying my best to be a good sport.

As a final act, Josh attached a clear plastic mask over my lower face. It was an exact replica of the one Hannibal Lecter wore in Silence of the Lambs. The snug fit pressured my lips, restricting my airflow and forcing me to breathe through my nose. My panic rose as each breath became a struggle. My lips were pressured, making it difficult to speak.

Imogen released a delighted laugh as she admired her creation, giving her hands a single, firm clap. “Oh my god,” she declared. “This has turned out even better than I thought.”

Josh grinned, pleased with his handiwork.

I tried to plead that the restaurants were too strong, that they were cutting into my skin and hurting me. But my words were incoherent which only added to Imogen’s amusement as she leaned forward, giggling into my face.

“You look sooo cute,” she said. “We’re going to have so much fun!”

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