Her lips showed a tremor in them. My stomach dropped.
No. No, no, no
I never wanted her to see me like this. Not ever. Not after the last outburst I had when we were younger. I lost control and ended up locked away behind thick walls, under cold lights, with white coats monitoring every breath I took.
They poked. Prodded. Measured the depth of my supposed sickness like I was truly sick.
And when I'd given them what they wanted–when I smiled, when I nodded, when I played their fucking game–they signed me off as "stable."
They thought I was better and that a little bit of therapy sessions would finally set me on track.
They thought that I had clawed my way out of the dark, but they had no idea…
And after a few weeks of therapy, everyone thought I had passed every test and evaluation and that I was fine. Little did they know that not only did I kill my therapist, I also drafted a report by her, stating that I was in a better condition.
