Cuckoo (aka Claire, Darling)

Epilogue

Elmswood Psychiatric Hospital

11 September 2026

Dear Diary,

Today was a better day. We had our group session, and I think it went well. Daisy seemed pleased, anyway. And that’s what all of this is about really, isn’t it? Progress. That’s the focus. Small steps a day at a time that will eventually culminate in one huge, impressive advance. Once they realise how far I’ve come, they’ll let me out, because I won’t be a danger to the public or to myself.

I’m less angry today. The courts may have betrayed me with their appropriation of my journals, but at least I am not in prison. I have a fair amount of freedom, lots of activities I can indulge in. I’m getting quite into painting. Most of my block-mates are okay. There’s one girl who is super shy but seems sweet. She’s in for arson, but I reckon she’ll be let out to a rehabilitation unit soon, as nobody died. Sukhi writes me letters, which remind me that there’s a life outside this place to aim for. I’m trying to work out what that life will look like for me once I’m out. Will anyone hire me? Will I ever get that family I’ve so longed for? These are things I worry about frequently, but the staff here have assured me that when I ‘graduate’ from here and am sent to the public rehabilitation unit, I will be assigned social workers whose whole job will be to look after me and make sure that I can get back on track with things like work and socialising. So that is what I’m focusing on for now.

Of course, I still have my secrets. We all do, after all. My first secret is that I haven’t been taking the drugs they give me. I know that they’re designed to make you foggy, so they can keep you locked up here even longer; make out that you’re too unfocused to be ready to leave. No, not for me. So I pretend to swallow them, but I hide them under my tongue and spit them out down the toilet later. If I can’t spit a tablet out, I swallow it but keep it lodged as high as I can in my throat and then throw it up later. Sometimes it doesn’t work, of course, and I just have to suck it up and swallow it. But I’m trying to make sure that there’s never enough of them in my system to get into my bloodstream and alter my thoughts or moods. Because that’s what they want– to make us all little sheep that they can herd around. I don’t belong here because I’m not fucking crazy. I’m not! I know the truth, and all of those dirty lying witnesses know the truth, and I cannot let them treat me and drug me like I’m a psychotic who is dangerous to society. No. So I pretend to take the pills, keep my wits about me, say the things they want to hear in my progress sessions, and await the day they let me out.

My second secret is that I don’t belong in this hospital, but I do belong in prison. Because (and this is funny) the truth is that Lilah didn’t trip and hit her head. And I didn’t push her. No, I held her shoulders with my two hands and I slammed that bitch’s skull into the mantelpiece, and I would do it again if necessary because she stole my fucking fiancé and then my life.

Now all I have to do is keep pretending that I know I’ve done wrong, and I’m sorry, so they will let me out and then I’ll be reunited with Noah again. I can’t wait. I know he’s out there, waiting for me. I hope I don’t keep him waiting too long.

I have to flush this paper now, in case they find it. I always make sure to fold my new diary entries carefully, into paper birds, before drowning them in the toilet. But I feel better already. Maybe there is something in that whole ‘confess your sins’ idea. Maybe Noah and I can convert to Catholicism when we’re reunited. Maybe I just like writing, releasing my thoughts into the ether. Either way, I’m coming home, Noah. I promise.

Love always,

your Claire