CHAPTER TEN
Riley — 16 years old
I’m livid.
Dr. Bailey says that when anger festers, we start to look for someone to blame. Anger is that petty devil on your shoulder, reminding you of your own misery, she’d say to me during our weekly therapy appointment. She would tell me to think outside of the wrath that holds me captive, to look beyond the weakness that traps me.
But right now, I can’t do that.
Who does Colton Bennett think he is? To compare me to a dead sparrow, with a broken wing. He knows nothing about me . But I know why he made that comparison. Birds are normally free creatures. But Colton was indirectly reminding me that I am caged — a sparrow who has been defeated. What is a bird without its wings? What is a bird that cannot fly?
A dead bird.
A dead sparrow.
A dying Riley.
My fists clench as I remember his taunts. I have to say, you puking all over your father’s expensive shoes sure made my night more interesting.
I knew my downfall was entertainment for a lot of people. But having to hear it from the mouth of that Bennett jerk has me both seething and feeling humiliated.
I storm into my room and lock the door behind me. I don’t share my room with anyone, thank God. My twin-bed is neatly made and my room is without a speck of dust, spotless. We have a cleaning lady who comes twice a week, but since there’s really nothing to do here at St. Lucas Rehabilitation, I spend my time cleaning every tiny crevice of my room. Cleaning helps keep my mind clear.
I don’t overthink when I’m cleaning.
I’m not riddled with shame or guilt when I’m cleaning.
My eyes flicker around the room like a mad person, looking for something — anything breakable. I’m so angry, I want, no need to break something. Storming into my adjoining bathroom, I only come to a halt when I catch my reflection in the mirror.
Because the bird lost its will to survive. That’s why you remind me of it.
Pale face, red eyes from holding in my tears of fury, and flushed cheeks. Dread consumes me to the point I start to feel nauseous, but I swallow it down.
My long blonde hair is messy and slightly knotted from the breeze, and I run my fingers through the wavy strands. My mother has never allowed me to cut it shorter than my usual waist-length. I used to take great pride in my hair. Long, silky, and naturally wavy. Complete strangers used to compliment me.
But then I remember how Colton had curled my hair around his finger, tugging on it. How he had so easily, so confidently reached out and touched my hair, as if he had every right to do so.
Bitterness fills my lungs and I noisily ransack through my drawers, looking for my toiletry bag. When I first came here a month ago, I was allowed nothing, except the few clothes in my bag. No electronic devices and nothing sharp was allowed.
But then after speaking with Dr. Bailey for three weeks, she was assured that I wasn’t suicidal. So some restrictions were slowly lifted. Two days ago, I was allowed to keep a nail clipper and a tiny pair of scissors for my personal grooming use.
I pick up the black scissors lying in the bottom of my toiletry bag. My heart slams into my chest, almost painfully. Thud. Thud. Thud.
I can still feel his warm breath on my cheek, as he spoke — taunting me. He soiled my hair by touching it. He sullied something I used to take great pride in. The only thing I used to think was beautiful about me.
Colton Bennett has tarnished the only good thing that was left in me. With his reckless words and careless touch.
It was a dead, fallen sparrow. You’re a dying, fallen princess. Weak prey in a world filled with dangerous beasts.
Bringing the sharp tip to my hair, I saw through the blonde strands. I don’t allow myself to overthink my actions.
Venom slithers through my veins like acid, coiling under my flesh and festering inside my pores. My breathing lurches in my throat, and my body shudders with a painful sob.
Cut. Cut. Cut.
I snip through my hair, carelessly.
My father’s voice echoes through my ears. You’re leaving tonight. Get changed, pack your bag and get the fuck out of my sight, Riley.
Cut. Cut. Cut.
I can still hear Jasper’s mocking. You’ve fallen so low, you can’t even crawl back up. Look around you, Riley. You are a joke now.
Cut. Cut. Cut.
You’re sick , my mother had said, with disgust in her voice.
Cut. Cut. Cut.
The scissors drop from my hand, clattering on the counter. Hair fills the sink, and some has fallen on the bathroom floor. My heart palpitates and there’s a dangerous tremor in the pit of my stomach. But I push the thought away.
Gone is my pretty waist-length hair. It’s choppy and uneven, the length of it just below my chin now. Something in the back of my head tells me to fix it, to make myself look presentable. To cut through the jagged wild parts and make it look even.
I can almost picture my mother’s disapproving glare and my father’s scathing look. A month ago, I would have bent over backward to do anything to please them.
“Not so pretty anymore, huh?” I whisper to myself, still staring at my reflection.
I push away from the sink and walk back into my bedroom. Diving under the covers, I curl in my bed and close my eyes.
Right now — for the first time, I feel free.
Free of my parents’ expectations and the world's rigid standards.
My value will not be judged solely on what they see.
I don’t have to be perfect.
I don’t have to be pretty.
I can just be me…
***
With a quick peek at everyone’s faces, I can tell we’ve all been forced into this. In the art therapy room, we’re all sitting on the lush carpet in a broken circle. The large windows overlook the ocean, and I can hear the waves hitting the rocks. The more I listen to it, the easier it is to almost hear a symphony between the two. The waves crashing against the rocks — with pretty hellos and sordid goodbyes.
I think the worst thing they can do in rehab is force us into these stupid social circles. I mean, who wants to talk to complete strangers about our traumas?
This is bullshit and with the look of pure annoyance on everyone’s face, they wholeheartedly agree. But Dr. Bailey thinks we need to find “friendship” and “socialize.” Again, bullshit.
Socializing and friends were what got me here in the first place.
“Dr. Bailey said these circles are supposed to create a foundation for us,” one of the girls starts. Our attention snaps to her, and she clears her throat, nervously. She seems to be the oldest one here. “Uhm, to strengthen the support system between peers and to learn how to trust again.”
Another girl scoffs.
My throat closes at her words. How to trust again.
I trusted Jasper.
I trusted my parents.
I trusted my friends.
In the end? I ended up alone.
Here, in this cold place. I hate it. And I hate everyone who has put me here.
“My name is Olivia,” she continues, while combing her fingers through her thick, wavy hair. Mine is still choppy and uneven from when I had carelessly cut through it two weeks ago.
Her dark eyes shift between us anxiously. It must be hard, being the person to break the ice among the six of us. She’s trying to make conversation, just like Dr. Bailey suggested. “I’m here because I’m addicted to heroin. I was here two years ago, but relapsed a few months later. So, here I am again. This time, I want to get better.”
The girl who scoffed, a tiny Asian with purple hair and lips painted with dark-red lipstick. “You kiss her ass? Dr. I-want-to-fix-you?”
Olivia flinches, dropping her gaze. Her shoulders slump in a rejected posture.
“Hey, I don’t know about Olivia, but I’ll definitely kiss Dr. Bailey’s ass. She’s got a nice ass,” another voice pitches in, this one with a heavy German accent.
“Ew, you’re into grandmas?”
“Dr. Bailey is like 35 years old max. And she’s hot, okay?”
“I’m suicidal.”
Everyone pauses, the room filling with silence. We turn to the girl in the far corner, to my right. With our attention now on her, she lets out a harsh mocking laugh. “Did I somehow grow two heads in the last two minutes?”
“No,” I whisper.
“My name is Steffy,” she continues, rolling up her long sleeves and showing us the silvery scars on her arms. Some new, some faded. But each one of them tells its own tragic story. “The first time I thought of killing myself, I was eleven. I thought it would be the easiest escape from my stepbrother.”
Purple-hair, who is sitting next to Steffy, shifts closer to her. “My name is Eun-Jung. No, I don’t have an American or simplified English name. I’m Eun-Jung, that’s it.”
Her hand moves to her hair, twisting a purple strand around her index finger. “I have bad PTSD, because…my boyfriend was my trafficker. Shit happened, I escaped, and he’s dead. But, yeah.”
When no one says a word, Eun-Jung stabs a finger into the bicep of the girl next to her. “Your turn.”
“I’m Millie,” she introduces herself, her blue eyes shifting among all of us. Almost like she’s carefully studying each of us. “I’m German. I have bipolar disorder and depression.” Her gaze finally lands on me and she points. “Your turn.”
Fuck , what am I doing here? My head grows heavy, and the ground seems to shift under me. My tongue feels thick in my mouth, and I try to swallow, but it’s like every single function in my body has stopped working. “I, uhm…”
“I remember you,” Steffy says, “you went to Berkshire Academy, right? I saw you in the news, on Twitter.”
What?
“The Christmas party,” she elaborates. “It was all over social media.”
My stomach twists, with a sharp abdominal pain. “Yeah, that’s me,” I confess shakily. I’m going to be sick, oh God! “Public humiliation. Everyone witnessed it.”
Steffy cringes, her expression turning apologetic, but it’s already too late. That night was exactly what I wanted to forget, but I think maybe it’ll continue to haunt me for the rest of my life. Everyone has seen me at my worst — and because of it I was outcasted, ridiculed and shamed.
“My name is Riley. I have bulimia and anxiety disorder. My parents put me here, so I can’t further humiliate them.”
Their attention doesn’t linger on me, and I’m thankful for that. Anxiety is a bitch and this is exactly why this is a bad idea. Talking to people. Telling them what hurts me.
But I’m suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of relief. It’s a weird feeling of consolation and I don't exactly understand why . Maybe it’s because this is the first time I’ve said those words out loud.
I’m sick, I need help…and my parents think I’m nothing but a humiliation to them.
Our gazes turn to the last girl in the circle. She’s sitting cross-legged against the wall and she’s also the only girl who hasn’t spoken a word yet. The black scarf on her head hides her hair, and fully covers her neck. “My turn?” she speaks, her voice timid.
We all nod in response.
“My name is Maryam. I unknowingly trusted the wrong group of friends. They spiked my drinks and food, until I got addicted. I brought shame to my family and my parents dropped me here. I think they hate me.”
Brought shame to my family…
I think they hate me.
Yeah, that hits close to home.
The room is quiet again, the silence almost poignant. No one offers any condolences to each other. It’s almost like we know we are past that. We don’t want sympathies or someone’s futile pity. No one is trying to be righteous here. Because a stranger’s pity will not end our ceaseless suffering. We all know that to be true, and the silence speaks what is left unsaid. Everyone seems to have realized the real reason why we are here.In this circle.
Dr. Bailey isn’t trying to fix us.
I think…She wants us to heal on our own.
But we can’t do that without a support system, without people who think and feel just like we do. Because our experiences might not be the same, but we understand .
We see each other — everything bad, everything good and everything in between. Dr. Bailey was right about one thing.
The first step to recovery is acceptance.
I need help.
I want to get better.
I want to be Riley who fixes her own crown, fearless Riley — not the Riley who is scared of her own shadow.
TWO MONTHS LATER
Maybe Dr. Bailey wasn’t so wrong about these social circles and the impact of them. I mean, she is right about one thing. The girls and I have been able to create a foundation of camaraderie for ourselves. A support system , as Dr. Bailey would put it.
We have it once a week, but over the last few weeks, we’ve grown even closer. We meet up in the cafeteria at lunch, outside of our restorative circle time, to talk about the things that have no importance whatsoever. But it’s the little talks that keep us going — the idea that we can learn to trust again.
I grab my 16 by 16 inches canvas, waiting for the others to do the same. Our assignment today is to paint something that has meaning to us. Painting is supposed to be therapeutic, I guess. Or that’s what we’ve been told.
“Do you have any idea what you want to paint?” Maryam asks, coming to stand beside me. She has her canvas tucked under her arm and the box of paint in her left hand.
I shrug, because I actually haven’t had the chance to think about it. To paint something that holds importance to me? What does? I guess breathing is important. Oxygen? That’s what’s keeping me alive, at least. “I’m not much of a painter.”
I’ve heard that hope is the dream of a soul awake. But, what happens when the soul loses all hope?
“I think it’s kinda fun,” she laments thoughtfully. “My dad tried to woo my mom with his painting skills. We have canvases that he painted over two decades ago all over our house.”
Maryam talks a lot about her parents. Her words are always filled with so much longing and melancholy. She sounds like she has a better relationship with her parents than the rest of us.
“Ohhh, your nails!” Steffy gushes, bringing our attention to where she’s standing. She holds Olivia’s hand in hers, inspecting the yellow, flowery nails closely. “What the heck, they look so pretty and professionally done.”
“I did them myself,” Olivia, says proudly. “I have the DIY kit in my room. I can do yours.”
“It’s giving me spring vibes, I love it!” Maryam adds. “The pastel color is so pretty.”
“I can do yours too, if you want. I have more pastel colors, what do you like? I can do pink or purple,” Olivia suggests, but Maryam is already shaking her head.
“I can’t put on nail polish right now, I have to pray later.” Steffy and Olivia give her understanding looks, and she elaborates, “But maybe next week? If you don’t mind. I’ll be on my period.”
“Cool, I can do it next week.”
Maryam smiles in appreciation. After grabbing our canvases and supplies, we walk outside to the garden to find the painting spot Dr. Bailey has reserved for us. We find six easels placed in a circle, and we each pick one before getting set-up.
The spring breeze caresses my skin, bringing me a small amount of warmth. I used to like this season. A new beginning , I would think.
I used to think that spring is a slowly overflowing bottle of bubbling joy. It banishes the cold claws of winter and brings us the warm caress of summer. With buds blossoming, trees thawing and grasses turning greener. Healthier. Livelier.
Spring brings life — the season of fragrance.
I liked that.
But now spring is cold and lonely — a painful melancholy, with dreadful memories and empty solitude.
My gaze lingers over my blank canvas. “What’s your greatest regret?” I ask Maryam, who picked the easel beside me. While the six of us have gotten close, we’ve somehow put ourselves into pairs of friendship.
Steffy and Eun-Jung.
Olivia and Millie.
Maryam and me…
I guess it works. Maryam and I have a good understanding of each other, and I think the reason why we have gotten closer is because we share the same bleeding wound.
We’ve both brought shame to our families…
Maryam is quiet for a second, before she finally answers, “Moving to live on campus.”
“What do you mean?”
“My mother was adamantly against it,” she explains quietly. “I got into Yale, my dream university, but the commuting was too long, two hours there and two hours back. I thought it would have been exhausting. My father agreed that I could live on campus. He has never refused me anything. He used to call me his Malika . I was his little princess and his pride. So he let me go, even though my mother was against it. And now, I wish I had listened to her.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I defend vengefully.
Maryam shakes her head. “Do you blame yourself for what happened?”
When I don’t respond, she smiles despondently. “When I arrived there, I instantly got along with my two housemates. They seemed to have respect my boundaries, or I thought they did. When they would bring their friends and guys over, I’d just stay in my room. But sometimes, they would ask me to join, and I’d feel bad to always refuse. So I would join them, sitting in a corner and watching them get shit-drunk. I hated the smell of alcohol and weed. I didn’t realize they were spiking my drinks and food.”
She pauses and then shakes her head, letting out a small humorless laugh.
“Wait, no that’s a lie. In the back of my head, I knew something was off. Something was wrong. But my exams were coming up, and I was so stressed. I was taking sleeping pills, because I was struggling with insomnia. So, at first, I assumed it was the side effects of the sleeping pills. The mental confusion, the drowsiness and everything that came with it. It took me three weeks before realizing what was really happening. But you know what the worst part is? Three weeks was enough to get me addicted. That’s crazy, right? I mean, that’s how fast it can become an addiction? Saying that out loud is crazy enough, I still can’t wrap my head around it sometimes. So, yeah, I regret going to live on campus. I regret not listening to my mother. I regret being so naive and stupid, and trusting the wrong people.”
Maryam dips her paintbrush into yellow paint and then spreads it across the canvas. “But do you know what’s worse, Riley?”
I stare down at my palette of colorful paint, trying to figure out where to start. I can’t pick a color; I don’t even know what to paint.
“Facing my parents’ disappointment,” Maryam tells me, and my heart slams against my rib cage so hard, I fear it’ll leave bruises. “When I told my dad, he didn’t even say a word. He was so…quiet. But I could see the life fading in his eyes, his pride for me — replaced with silent disappointment. I had never seen my mother that angry before. But she didn’t yell at me . She was screaming at my dad. For letting me go. She blamed him . The next day, they dropped me here, at the facility. I wish they had told me that they weren’t angry with me. I wish they told me they didn’t hate me. And I really wish my dad had hugged me.”
“How do you deal with it?” I choke out, the lump in my throat growing heavier than I can possibly bear. I can’t breathe. “The feeling of uselessness, their disappointment, the guilt and the fear. God, Maryam. The fear of not being enough. How do you deal with it?”
She touches the hem of her hijab, but it’s almost like an unconscious action. “Everyone is on their own journey with their faith. I believe that God always finds us at our lowest, and then shows us the path that’s right for us. We believe in Qadar, in other word, divine fate , or I guess destiny, you can say. My mother used to say that believing in it would keep us from being excessively proud or excessively miserable. Because, whatever good, or whatever bad happens to us is the will of God. Sometimes we can have everything at the tips of our fingers —money, fame, richness and respect. Everything we desire. But then, in the blink of an eye, it’s all gone. That’s why believing in Qadar has us acknowledging the bad with persistence and humbleness, as opposed to sadness and disappointment.”
After the Christmas party, I remember being filled with so much anger and hatred. I screamed at how unfair it was; I questioned God or whatever High Power was listening to me. I felt betrayed by destiny and I became hostile.
“God is merciful, and we believe that He pardons those who are truly asking for forgiveness. So, if He can forgive us, then we should be able to forgive ourselves.”
While I had been so angry at my situation…
Maryam was seeking comfort in her faith.
I was filled with so much self-loathing and resentment, and Maryam was reconciling with herself, coming to peace with her situation.
“ How ?” I whisper. “How do we forgive ourselves?”
Dr. Bailey said the same thing. To accept, to forgive and to let go of self-resentment. She said those three things were essential in our healing process, so that we can move on.
But, how?
How do I accept that none of this was my fault?
How do I forgive myself for mistakes that were beyond my control?
And how do I let go of all this self-loathing that seems to manipulate my every breath?
“I don’t know,” Maryam whispers, her eyes focused on her canvas. “But sometimes, it’s not just about forgiveness. It’s about acceptance .”
We both fall quiet again, a thoughtful silence spreading between us. Maryam keeps on painting, while I stare at my empty canvas. Finally, I dip my brush into black paint.
I don’t know how long it’s been, but everything I tried to paint didn’t feel right. So I kept painting over it with black paint. I tried flowers, grass, the moon, the starry skies…
Except nothing felt right.
The others are done with their artwork.
But I am left with only an empty, black canvas.
Maryam touches my elbow, and my eyes flicker to her easel, which she turns toward me so I can see her finished canvas. “I’m not sure, but I think if we believe in new beginnings, then it might become easier to move on,” she tells me softly.
She has painted the sunrise over a lake and the colors are vibrant and exquisite. Warm and breathtaking. A new beginning.
“Maryam,” I breathe, my voice shaking.
I finally understand what she’s been trying to say. The warmth of her sunrise leaves seeds of hope in my withered heart. I know exactly what to paint now.
Everyone takes their finished canvas and head back inside.
I stay, and finally …I dip my brush into something other than black paint. By the time I’m done, my shoulders ache, but a ghost of a smile finds its way onto my lips.
A butterfly is spread across my canvas.
Monarch butterflies represent strength and endurance. Transformation and evolution.
A new beginning.
My new beginning.
Riley Johnson is not perfect.
And I refuse to be the dead sparrow.
I am the Monarch butterfly — free and reborn.