Chapter 20
Kenzi
The blinds are half-drawn, cutting the morning light into bars across the floor. It feels like a stage set even here, in the hospital’s therapy room. Maybe that’s why my skin itches, like I’m about to be called on to perform.
But I’m not. That isn’t real. My recovery is, and so is returning home to my family.
Dr. Hanson sits across from me, the confiscated journal closed on the table between us.
Her hands rest lightly on her knees, steady, waiting.
“You said you’re ready to remember. Today we’ll begin carefully.
No hypnosis. Just you and me, and the memories that rise when we touch the edges of the script. ”
My chest tightens. I think of Fenna, her laugh, her wide trusting eyes. If I don’t do this, I’ll never know how to keep her safe. I’ll always wonder if one word, one gesture, could flip a switch inside me and make me hurt her.
“I have to,” I whisper, tears threatening. “Even if it breaks me.”
Dr. Hanson nods once. “We’ll do everything we can to avoid that by going slow. We’ll anchor you here in this room. If it overwhelms you, say stop, and we’ll stop. Nothing will pull you under without your permission. Okay?”
I try to believe her. My palms press hard against the chair’s armrests, grounding myself. “Okay.”
She opens a thin folder. Radley’s “script.” The pages are yellowed copies, typed in clipped phrases.
“Read the first line aloud,” she instructs.
My throat tightens, but I force my eyes to focus. The words blur, then sharpen.
Smile before you speak. Obey before you question. The stage is safety. The audience is a god.
A tremor seizes me, and I taste metal in my mouth. My body knows these words even if my mind wishes it didn’t. My shoulders rise, spine straightens, a stage smile stretches against my will.
Dr. Hanson’s voice cuts through. “Kenzi, breathe. Look at me. You’re not there—you’re here.”
I fight to keep my eyes on hers. Slowly, the smile fades.
And then a memory crashes in, unbidden. Laurel’s hand on my shoulder. The white spool pressed into my palm. Children in masks staring, waiting for me to act on my cue.
I choke out, “I didn’t want to…” My hands shake violently. “I didn’t want to hurt them.”
Dr. Hanson leans forward. “Say it again. Make the memory yours, not theirs.”
“I didn’t want to!” My voice cracks. I clutch my knees, rocking forward. “They made me. She made me a puppet.” Hot tears spill, but something in me loosens. I’m not just reliving the performance. I’m naming it, claiming it as mine.
Dr. Hanson’s voice is calm, sure. “Good. That’s the truth. You were forced. You survived, and now you’re remembering.”
I draw a shuddering breath. Fear still coils in me, but under it is something else—resolve.
Because I know now what I’m fighting against.
My body won’t stop trembling, but I feel lighter, like a knot has finally loosened.
Dr. Hanson doesn’t move, doesn’t rush in to comfort me, just holds my gaze. Her stillness steadies me more than any hug could. “That was the first step. You named what they did. You reclaimed a piece of yourself.”
I wipe my face with the back of my sleeve. “It hurts. I feel… hollow.”
“That’s normal,” she says gently. “But listen to me, Kenzi. The further we go, the sharper it will get. Memories you’ve buried aren’t gone, they’re waiting. And when they surface, they can come like fire. You need to be ready for that.”
A chill runs down my spine. “What if I’m not strong enough? What if I remember something so terrible I can’t come back from it?”
Her expression softens, but her voice stays firm. “Then I’ll be here to ground you. We’ll face it together. But hiding from the truth won’t make it disappear. It will only leave it festering inside you.”
I nod, though fear knots my stomach. She’s right. The shadows won’t stop whispering until I shine a light on them and make them disappear.
“I want to keep going,” I whisper. “For Fenna and Ember. If I don’t understand what they did to me, I’ll always be a danger to them.”
Dr. Hanson closes the folder, leaving it between us like a line we’ll cross again soon.
“Then we’ll build a framework. Controlled sessions, one piece of the script at a time.
You’ll keep a journal for flashes that come outside.
And together, we’ll thread the memories until you see the whole pattern. ”
Her words settle into me—hope laced with dread. A roadmap to the truth, but one lined with landmines.
I glance at the window. My reflection stares back again. My face, pale and weary, but behind it I see the shadow of the child I was, wide-eyed and shaking under the lights.
The two of us overlap. This, somehow, feels like progress.
And in the hollow silence, the thought slips through before I can stop it.
The performance isn’t over. It never ended. And I’m still following someone else’s script.
But soon I’ll be following my own.