It took three nights.
Three stolen glances at unlocked computers.
Three misfiled art therapy folders.
Three risks too small for alarms, but too dangerous for peace.
And then I found it.
---
Patient ID: CW-2016-412
Name: Celia R. Winters
Admittance Date: February 3, 2016
Status: Inactive. No discharge noted.
---
Inactive.
Not released.
Not transferred.
Just… erased.
---
I opened the report.
It felt like reading my own life —
but in a parallel timeline that didn't end in healing.
---
> "Subject exhibits high verbal articulation and emotional self-awareness."
"Refuses to adopt 'passive patient role.'"
"Displays extensive journaling, considered obsessive."
"Multiple interactions suggest distrust in staff and facility."
"Reclassified as emotionally manipulative — suggest increased observation."
---
There it was.
My shadow.
Same language.
Same "progress flags."
Same refusal to be silenced.
But her story ended differently.
---
The last entry?
> "Subject unresponsive after medication alteration. Incident labeled as adverse reaction. Parent contact attempted. Record archived."
That was it.
No follow-up.
No apology.
No accountability.
Just another voice reduced to paperwork.
---
And suddenly, it clicked.
They weren't afraid of my trauma.
They were afraid of my memory.
Because memory writes stories.
And stories… don't stay dead.
---
I copied what I could.
Rewrote details in my hidden journal.
Folded her initials into a page titled "They Won't Do This Twice."
Because if I vanish?
Let them find her name on my lips.