Page 80 of Little Twisted Things

“I don’t think you can call a psychiatric unit a neighborhood.” I laughed.

“No? I’ve spent enough time here that it feels like one.” She winked.

She looked around the room, noticing the little succulent she’d given me during our horticultural therapy had doubled in size.

“That little succulent has really grown,” she said.

“It has. Hasn’t it?”

She turned and stared at the wall where my desk sat. The last time she was in my room, there were three paintings on the wall. Now, there were a dozen, arranged in a perfect gallery across the wall.

“I see Sydney has been busy,” she said.

“She knows how much I love art.”

“They’re beautiful. How’s Katherine doing?”

“She’s good. The baby is due soon. It’s a girl.”

“Oh, how wonderful. Did she pick a name yet?”

“Yeah.” I smiled. “Rebecca.”

47

Five Years Later

Five years of the metal cart rolling down the hallway every morning at seven forty-five. Five years of therapy. Five years of being locked in a place where I’d chosen to stay so Katherine could live in peace and not face the ugliness of the world. She chose not to, and I respected that. None of this was her burden to bear. It wasn’t her fault we were created. She didn’t wake up one morning and decide she wanted a fractured mind. She was a frightened little girl whose world became too terrifying for one soul to carry alone. So her mind did the only thing it knew how to do. It survived.

Sunny protected fun and joy. The Librarian protected memories. Sydney protected innocence. And I? I carried the rage. Without us, there wouldn’t have been a Katherine left for us to save. The system wasn’t her failure. It was her mind’s masterpiece. We were proof that she refused to die.

I used to think our system was nothing but a collection of damaged parts. But in the end, we were only survivors, protecting the innocence of a five-year-old child.

The smell of fresh coffee drifted from the kitchenette to the right of the day room.

“Morning, Dahlia.” Nurse Young smiled as I poured myself a cup of coffee.

“Morning.” I smiled back.

With my coffee in hand, I walked across the room toward my usual chair beside the window. It had become my spot over the years, and everyone knew it. It had become a morning ritual. I stared out into the courtyard. The maple trees had begun turning shades of burgundy and gold. October had always been my favorite month of the year. It reminded me of myself. Autumn was when you’d finally begun letting pieces of yourself fall away. Not the pieces that made you who you are. The pieces that were never yours to carry in the first place. Five years ago, I would have seen that as weakness. But today? I saw it as courage. Healing wasn’t about becoming someone new. It was having the courage to let go of the person trauma convinced you that you had become.

“Morning, Dahlia.” George walked over. “Are you ready for your session with Dr. Bondi?”

“I am.” I smiled, getting up from my chair.

“Dahlia, good morning,” Dr. Bondi said when I stepped into her office.

“Morning, Dr. Bondi.” I took a seat on the couch. The same couch I’d sat on almost every day for the last five years.

“I have something I’d like to show you.” She walked over to her desk and picked up a thick stack of pages bound together with a black binder clip.

“You finished it?”

“I did.” She smiled.

I’d watched that manuscript grow over the last couple of years. Every so often she’d mention another chapter she finished or how she’d spent the weekend rewriting a specific section because she wanted to make sure she’d got it right.

She handed the manuscript to me, and I felt the weight of it in my hands.