My fingers were curled tightly around the door handle, and my legs would not respond. Kyra leaned over from the backseat to encourage me. “Give her a chance,” she said softly. “You don’t know if she will hurt you.”

I looked into her eyes, trembling. “And…” I whispered, “I don’t know if she won’t.”

As I stepped out of the car and onto the asphalt, I hugged my heavy black coat to my body, a body which was so ravaged from grief; an unattractive heap of bones held together by a collapsing framework of skin as white as the snow frosting the curbs. The black parking lot glimmered with a malicious sheen of ice, and I held onto my sister’s hand as I crossed it. But the timid gesture was more for emotional support than physical.

The clinic’s massive overhang shielded me from the glare of the silver sky, where the blanket of clouds was too blindingly bright to look at. A glare from the weak sunlight passed ominously over the engraving of Dr. Fisher’s name on the golden plaque next to the two glass doors. This winter possessed a golden glow, lacking last year’s blue undertones of depression.

“I can’t do this,” I moaned, my voice broken by threatening sobs.

“You’ve come so far,” Mother said, pressing her hand on my back. I jumped at the contact, and leapt away instantly. Her eyes revealed a mixture of stinging hurt and confusion at my shyness. “Inside, I know you want to be a different person. And it’s incredibly brave of you to allow yourself to come here and let her out.”

The receptionist gave us a small smile as we entered the lobby, which was significantly more cramped than the one of Olive Branch. It offered little comfort that there were no howls of kids whose souls were dying… maybe this was the last stop before one lost his mind. We took the elevator to the upstairs floor.

Kyra sank down on the couch in the waiting area, but I snuggled as far away from the pair of them as possible. I knew that, although my sister was not going to admit it, she had been changed by the entire ordeal as well. She was stronger because she had survived. I still was unsure of what my future held.

The concept of sitting had my guts tied up in a knot of fright, and so I stood, my back facing the wall to assure that no one could grab me from behind. A soft click caused me to close my eyes. It was the sound of the door opening. I wanted to melt into the floor. I couldn’t handle this. I was breaking all of my own policies.

“Go, Honey,” I heard my mother say.

I opened my eyes, and yet I still felt blinded by the hopeless imprisonment I had forced upon myself. Four walls surrounded me, cement walls, walls which encased me within my little cell of terror from the past. And they protected me from relying on and trusting anyone else.

My haze deafened me, protecting me from Dr. Fisher’s words. She invited me in, alone, and I hesitantly stepped in. Her mouth was moving, but I still couldn’t hear her. I refused to look into her eyes. She was another one of them, and she had the power to puppet me in any way to suit her satisfaction.

“Sophie? Did you hear me?”

I looked blankly at the far wall, my eyes swimming in tears. I shook my head, and didn’t bother to brush away the locks of dark hair that curtained my pinched face and steely eyes.

“I asked you what’s been bothering you the most. I’m aware of several problems you’ve been experiencing, but your mother seemed a little vague about what’s troubling you. Maybe she’s afraid to reveal too much and wants you to come clean yourself.” Her voice was soothing, but I wasn’t about to be lulled into a senseless stupor where my walls could be pulled down. “She says it’s taken you quite a while to return. I understand it was… a year ago when we last met?”

Time races by when you cannot understand it. I nodded. I still stood in the middle of the room, vulnerable. The only arms that were outstretched far enough to catch me if I were to fall were those of her armchair. My mouth scarcely allowed the words to escape.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.” Dr. Fisher stared in curiosity.

No one can hear the silent screams that escape from my head every day… “I can’t…” My head shrunk into my chest as I quivered. I AM NOT GOING TO CRY IN FRONT OF YOU!

She leaned forward, trying to dip her head into my mind and taste my pain. “You can’t what?” I noticed that in her freshly manicured hands she held… a notebook. She was writing down all I was saying! But I spoke again, in a wavering voice heavy with emotion.

“I can’t trust anyone.”

I was suspended in a weightless silence. She now was going to think I was crazy. Maybe she’d commit me. Maybe it would be better if I were kept away from normal society, so I wouldn’t leave impressions of my anguish on everyone. Maybe I couldn’t heal on my own, and my true place in the world was behind tightly locked doors. Maybe… maybe….

“Do you know why that is?”

I turned away from her, and faced the oak door. It was polished enough for me to see the faint outline of what I once was… and what I could have been. I wondered how many people she saw cry each day. Probably a lot. “Because,” I gasped through impending sobs, “I don’t want to trust anyone. Then when they leave me, there will be nothing for me to lose.”

Her eyes fogged over as she commiserated with me. “That must really feel terrible,” she sympathized.

I dared to look, and saw in her eyes… engrained within the hazel was a light of hope… a connection. No longer did I feel preyed upon. She could help me. She could save my life. My mind startled itself in its longing to explain everything… the experimenting, my sister’s burns, Olive Branch, Mr. Ferguson and Mrs. Barry, XRZ8, the mirror, observation, the loss of Josh, my endurance….

I edged over to the couch, and very cautiously sat down. I did feel some forming conviction, but I was not enjoying it. It was scaring me. “Please help me,” I whimpered, on the verge of having a breakdown. “I want to live.”

She looked a little surprised. “Aren’t you living now?” she asked.

The veins in her lily plant caught my attention, and my eyes began to drift slowly over every graceful curve as they gave each leaf nourishment. “I haven’t lived in months.”

“Sophie,” she said, so delicately that I thought she was going to put her hand on my shoulder, “I’m sorry you feel that way. And I want to be able to work with you on that. But there is something you should know first. In this room, you are free to make your own decisions.” She held out her slender arms to produce a sense of openness. “You are in control of whether or not you want to come again for another meeting.”

“So… I could…” I twiddled my thumbs, “just not come back?”

“Sure,” she said, just like that. Oh, no. I feel… more trust. Hope. I’m afraid. I can’t trust her. She still has multiple chances to harm my brittle mental state.

The lady spoke again. “I really would like you to return, though. I very much think I could help you.”

“I’ll do it,” I said shakily, with tightly closed eyes.

“Good, I’ll arrange your next appointment with your mother,” she said, reading over her notes.

“First, can I ask you something?”

“Mmm, hmm?” she replied, fixing her eyes on me.

“Am I crazy?”

She smiled. “No, I don’t think so.”

I stared blankly at the numerous streaks of different shades of mahogany that made up the rich color of her modern door. My brain told my body to move, and at the same time, my heart told my body to freeze. I felt… safe. This was my special place. I had not been tricked, or belittled, or accused. I had been reintroduced to the normal world, which actually held benevolent human beings… something I had not realized in a long time.

Dr. Fisher leaned forward. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

A smile flickered across my face. “Actually… no.”

She became very excited and told me she would write me in for next week. I left the clinic a few minutes later, embarrassed that the stranger now had some of my feelings and my secrets bound in a yellow-paged notebook. But my heart felt lighter, and though that feeling, like the trust, was frightening, I knew I didn’t want to let it go.

I left the clinic without a straightjacket, without any blame, without cynical laughter, without pills, and without a one-way ticket to the funny farm. Inside of my mother’s handbag was a note to come back next week.

The rosebush I lived beneath was the most peaceful sanctuary one could have. It smelled pleasant, and Mother kept the ground underneath very clean. The thin, delicate branches grew so that they wrapped around each other, crocheting woven patterns like baskets jeweled with English roses. And when the morning light shone through, it would send shards of bright gold swirling around, dappling everything in sight.

Our rose bush was in the front yard of the Milano family. Mrs. Milano was divorced, and she had two boys, Timothy and his brother. Timothy was extraordinarily kind, a saint to the animal world. He gave my mother cat food, fresh water, and he even brought us a fluffy blanket to sleep on.

Even though we had plenty to eat, Mother wanted variety, so she would go on mouse hunts. My sister and I would be sleeping on Timothy’s fuzzy blanket when she did this, so we would have something to ease the fear of being alone. We fell asleep; sharing what we did not know was going to be our last night together.

I heard the most dreadful squeal while dozing off, but since I was still dreaming, I thought the sound was something my imagination had created. Then, all possibility of sleep faded as a large and smelly human hand reached in and grabbed me by the scruff of the neck. I saw his face… mean enough to stop a bus. I fought as hard as I could, but the man taped my legs together and shoved me into a dark, plastic cavern. I cried out for my sister, but there was no sign of her anywh—

There was a casual knock at my door and I looked up from the page in my journal to see shifting shadows breaking the bar of light beneath it. Jamie entered, his wide eyes avoiding me. “Your mom says that it’s time for dinner,” he said. “We’re all washing up.”

I looked back down at my indecisive handwriting, and gently rested the pencil in the spine of the book. The boy fidgeted, and I glanced back at him. “I’m coming,” I said softly.

He lingered. “What are you doing?” he shyly asked.

“Letting go.” I closed my book.

I heard some voices and laughter coming from my bathroom, and I wandered down the hall, writing imaginary words upon the palm of my hand with my finger. I was mumbling unintelligible things to myself, and I stopped short as I nearly ran into Jamie. He was standing like a monk, shadowed with submission, his head bowed serenely over tender, folded hands.

I peeked around the doorframe. Kyra and Alex were giggling about something I had missed, and I noticed clusters of soap bubbles sliding elegantly down the smooth surface of the bathroom mirror like comforting tears. I eased in a bit closer, and stared head-on into my reflection, the green-blue of my open eyes, my flowing brown hair, and my beautifully proportioned features. My face was no longer one of a thirteen-year-old, but instead of a pensive adult. Something deep inside of me warmed genially, and I gave the young woman a small, tentative grin. Jamie edged in next to my arm and followed my gaze. The mirror quieted like the surface of a lake that had been broiled by many severe storms as the fear began to lift from his dark eyes. He looked up at me, expectantly.

I turned to him. “My name is Sophie,” I said.