Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 46398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
I don’t care. I can’t stop.
Water runs in the staff bathroom. I have a few more seconds. The girl stares back at me, completely still, not making a sound. I know she sees me, though. Her eyes get a little brighter. Her breathing is a little quicker.
She sees me.
My stomach lurches again and my head gets light. I’m forced to lean against the brick wall. It’s fucking freezing. Suddenly everything is freezing.
The bathroom door opens with a creak behind me and I stand up straight, holding back bile. I turn my head forward and let my face fall into an emotionless mask. I don’t move a muscle, as if I’ve been staring forward the entire time Mr. Jay has been in the bathroom.
I can feel her eyes burning into my skin.
My heart beats loud in my ears. Another few seconds stretch by. All I want to do is look back at her but I don’t.
One day. One day we’ll be out of here. But I don’t know if I can wait that long. If they’re doing to her what they do to me… They have to be stopped. She can’t turn into what I am. They can’t do that to her. I won’t let them.
HALEY
Present day
The woman who sits across from me in my office reminds me of something from school.
I can’t put my finger on who it was, exactly. For a long time, every name I learned there was burned into my brain. That’s what happens when you’re not allowed to get to know anyone else. Those pieces of information are precious and forbidden, so I held them close to my chest.
I remember very clearly how I felt about the things we weren’t allowed to have, like food and privacy and friendships. An opinion. A voice. Whenever I learned something about another student, I hoarded it. Unlike food, those facts couldn’t go bad.
Kelly. My patient’s name is Kelly. As far as I know, there was no Kelly at the school. I memorized every name after we got out. When the files were released, we saw everything unfold.
It’s not her name that reminds me. I think it’s the color of her hair—a dark, natural brunette. The way it’s parted not quite down the center and the softness of her curls.
She looks just like her. I know the girl’s face from the black and white photos better than the memories from that school. She’s one of the ones who killed herself.
I take a deep breath, my notebook shifting on my lap and I steady myself. Now is not the time to be sifting through old memories of that place. Now is the time to focus on my patient.
To focus on Kelly.
We’re forty minutes into the session, and she is curled into an overstuffed chair across the office from me. Her posture is defensive and hurt.
In my experience, there are two ways people can go when they look like that. Kelly might be on the edge of a breakthrough, or she might be on the edge of getting up and walking out.
I would understand if she did. I’ve done my fair share of walking out of appointments when it seemed like the therapist I was working with would never understand.
Now I know that it’s impossible for people who weren’t in that situation at the school with us to understand, and I don’t blame them.
Kelly sniffles. Tears run down her face, but she clears her throat, her expression determined.
“Take your time,” I reassure her and she heaves in a breath, her fingers running through her hair and then resting on her forehead.
I’m glad for all the work I put into my office at times like this. I wanted it to look safe and welcoming. I wanted it to be safe and welcoming, of course. Some therapists think the environment isn’t the most important thing when it comes to working with patients, but I don’t know where they got that idea. Kelly’s shoulders relaxed the first time she stepped into my office. She’s never said what the furniture and the soft lighting—light from the window during the day—and the throw blanket on the arm of the overstuffed chair reminds her of. She might not even know on a conscious level.
But I’m glad that the space around her is comfortable, because she’s clearly experiencing some uncomfortable feelings.
“I’m here to listen,” I remind her. “I’m interested to know how you’re feeling and what you’re thinking about right now.”
“Ugh,” she says. “I’m frustrated. I’m so frustrated, and I don’t know what—”
Kelly breaks off and whips another tissue from the box on the side table. She blows her nose, then crumples the tissue into a tiny ball in her fist.
I wait, one leg crossed over the other, keeping my body relaxed. It enrages me that people can hurt other people the way Kelly has been hurt and the way I’ve been hurt. I don’t let myself get angry when I’m in sessions. I don’t let it show. I keep it in a little tin box, locked away with a tiny key deep down inside of me until the door is closed and the patient is gone.