I woke up with my mouth dry. Not just dry — it felt like the Sahara had moved in overnight. My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth, my lips cracked, my throat a desert. My heart was pounding so loud I swore it was trying to escape. Boom. Boom. Boom. Like something terrible had already happened, and my body was just now catching up.
My stomach dropped.
And then that sickening, twitchy nausea. The kind where your whole body prepares to throw up even when there's nothing inside. No food. No water. Just bile and memory. Just the taste of nightmares.
I didn't know what day it was. I hadn't known in months. But I didn't need a calendar. I'd counted the sunrises. The moons. The footsteps in the hallway. The way the walls pulsed every time someone screamed. My body remembered what my brain forgot. Today wasn't just another day in the institution.
It was Selection Day.
Psychiatrist visit, they called it. Cute, right? Makes it sound official. Safe. Like it's for our well-being.
It's not.
In this place, psychiatrists don't fix you. They pick you.
They pick the ones who still look good with hollow eyes and malnourished bones. They pick the silent ones. The obedient ones. They drug us. Dress us up like broken dolls. And parade us in front of men who wear suits and smiles and power like perfume.
Judges. Politicians. Doctors. CEOs. The ones who make the rules so they can break them.
And us?
We're the crazy girls.
Who's going to believe us?
I already knew it was my turn. Mr. Stephen had been hovering for weeks. I used to like him, back when he just smiled and asked me about my dreams. He had kind eyes. Or maybe I imagined that. Sometimes I can't tell what's real and what's not.
But then his hands got brave. Slipping lower. Gripping harder. He'd whisper things in my ear like, "You're my favorite," and "No one understands you like I do." One day, he kissed me. Just like that. Pinned me to the chair, forced his tongue into my mouth like I was supposed to be grateful.
I didn't fight. I couldn't. I froze. Maybe part of me thought I imagined it. Maybe I wanted to.
And that's the most fucked-up part.
Some days I think it was real. Other days, I think I made it up. A hallucination. A sick dream. That's the thing with being "crazy"—you don't even trust your own pain.
So I stayed quiet.
And today, they picked me.
They gave me a dress. Thin. White. Almost see-through. No underwear. They said it was for the doctor's "observations." A nurse laughed. I didn't.
Next to me was a girl. Maybe sixteen. Big eyes. Shaky hands. You could see the terror in her every breath. I didn't speak to her. What could I say?
Nothing prepares you for what comes next.
We were taken to the "office." But it wasn't an office. It was a room dressed like civility. Leather couches. Crystal decanters. A desk big enough to eat a body on. And around it? Men. Important ones. I recognized a few from TV. From hospital brochures. From courtrooms.
They watched us like they were choosing steak.
"She's too thin," one said, nodding at the girl.
"I like them young," another replied.
I stood still. Quiet. Not resisting. Not engaging. I'd learned that stillness was safer than fear.
They picked the girl first.
She whimpered.
They laughed.
Stephen touched my shoulder, guiding me toward the couch. I didn't flinch. Not yet. I knew how this went.
They started on her. She screamed. One man hit her. Another laughed so hard he coughed.
I stared at the floor. At the pattern in the carpet. A stain shaped like a rabbit. If I stared hard enough, I could pretend I wasn't here.
Until she looked at me.
Her eyes locked onto mine.
She didn't scream then. She didn't cry.
She just begged. Without words. Please.
Something inside me cracked.
I stood.
Walked toward Stephen.
He grinned. That goddamn grin.
"I knew you'd come around," he said, spreading his legs. "You always were the smart one."
I sat on his lap.
His hands slid up my thighs like they belonged there. I leaned in close. Pressed my lips to his. Let the men cheer. Let them watch. Let them believe.
His hands moved higher.
That's when I reached into his jacket.
He tensed.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he growled.
I pulled out the scissors I'd hidden hours ago, wedged behind a loose tile in the bathroom. Cold. Silver. Sharp.
I pressed them to his neck.
He froze.
"Don't," I said. "Let her go. Now."
"You're a crazy fucking bitch," he hissed, voice low, venomous.
I pressed harder.
The room went silent.
"You really think anyone's gonna believe this?" he laughed bitterly. "You're insane. You hallucinate your own name. I touch you and you moan like you want it."
My hands shook.
He grabbed my wrist.
"Put it down," he whispered. "Before you get hurt."
I gritted my teeth.
His hands were everywhere now, greedy and fast. My body reacted the way it always did—still. Quiet. As if that would make me invisible. As if shrinking into myself would make the moment pass faster.
I wasn't even in the room anymore.
I was on a beach I'd never seen. Warm sand. Empty sky. No voices. No pain. Just me and the sea.
But even there, I could feel his fingers.
"You like this," he whispered against my ear, and it shattered the ocean. "I know you do."
I came back.
Reality was louder than a scream.
Inside, something snapped like a rubber band stretched too thin.
He thought I was weak.
He thought I was crazy.
He didn't realize how dangerous that made me.
When I shoved the scissors into his side, I swear time cracked open. I saw it all at once — every time he'd touched me, every time I'd been told to smile, to be a good girl, to sit pretty.
My rage wasn't just mine. It was inherited. Generational. Sacred.
"You let her go," I hissed, the scissors trembling in my grip. "Or I cut his fucking throat open."
The men hesitated. All that power and not a clue what to do when a pretty little doll grows fangs.
Stephen struggled under me, still trying to talk, still calling me crazy through clenched teeth. But no one moved. Not yet.
"Knife," I barked to the girl. "On the table."
She blinked. Her hands shook like leaves.
"Pick it up. Now!"
She did.
"Good," I said, panting. "Now look at my hand."
I showed her the number scrawled in ink across my palm. Messy, desperate digits. A lifeline I'd memorized in dreams.
"Call it."
She looked confused. "Who is it?"
"Just do it."
She picked up the phone. Dialed. Put it to her ear. Her lip was bleeding.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
Then—"Hello?"
It was a man. Steady voice. Older. Familiar.
I leaned into the receiver.
"Help," I whispered.
A click.
He hung up.
My breath caught.
"What was that?" Stephen spat, trying to throw me off him. "Who the fuck was that?!"
I smiled. Wide. Bloody. "Your reckoning."
He tackled me, and my head hit the floor. A dull thud. My ears rang. His hands found my throat. I kicked. Bit. Clawed. He was sweating, bleeding, grunting like an animal.
"You belong to us!" he shouted.
No. I belonged to no one.
Right before I stabbed myself, I saw her face again—the girl. She was behind him, crying. No. Not crying. Screaming. But the sound was underwater.
And then, for a split second, I saw myself—years younger, knees scraped, eyes empty. She looked at me and smiled.
"Finally," she said. "You did it."
Then—darkness.
Gunshots.
Screams.
Chaos.
Someone grabbed me.
"She's still breathing!"
I wanted to smile.
Because even if I was broken, even if I was bleeding out on the floor of this hellhole—
I saved her.
And for once, I was real.