Chapter 23
Kenzi
All of this feels too clean, too safe. It’s the same every time. The walls are blank, the windows narrow, the air so temperate I can’t even feel my skin.
I sit across from Dr. Hanson, staring at the folder of the Radley “script.” Every session we circle the same fragments, careful, controlled. It helps a little. But it also feels like scratching at the edges of a locked door.
Finally, I blurt it out. “This isn’t enough!”
Dr. Hanson blinks, looking startled. “You’ve been making progress, Kenzi. Small steps matter.”
“Small steps won’t get me there.” I lean forward. My chest is tight, but the words push through anyway. “If I want to break this, if I want to see it all, I have to go back to where it started.”
Her brows knit. “What do you mean?”
“The theater.” My voice wavers, but I don’t back down. “The old one. The condemned Radley stage. That’s where she trained us. That’s where the script lives. If I want to tear it out of me, I have to stand where it happened.”
A flicker of alarm passes over her face. She shakes her head. “Kenzi, exposure like that could be destabilizing. You’re already struggling with flashbacks in safe environments. Placing you in the exact location where the trauma occurred, without full support, could be catastrophic.”
I clutch my knees, digging in my nails until it hurts. “But don’t you see? That’s why nothing’s working. I’m still performing in my head because I never left that stage. If I stand there now, as me, as an adult… I can end it by stopping playing my part.”
She exhales slowly, clearly choosing her words with care. “Or it could pull you deeper into the role. Into the programming. Kenzi, you could lose yourself.”
I meet her gaze, feeling the heat of tears threatening. “Then maybe that’s the only way I’ll know if there’s anything left of me to save. I have to press forward, move on, get back home. This is the fastest way. You can’t deny it.”
The silence between us stretches.
Dr. Hanson finally speaks. “You have been more lucid lately.”
“Proving my point.”
Her jaw tightens. “If we even consider this, we do it carefully. Structured, support in place. No rushing.”
But her tone doesn’t matter. Because at last, I know what I have to do.
The theater is waiting, and I’m going to walk back onto that stage.
“I want to go tonight.” The words come out fast, almost desperate. “If I wait, I’ll lose the nerve. I’ll talk myself out of it. Or worse, they’ll talk me out of it.”
Dr. Hanson’s brow furrows.
I lean forward, gripping the arms of my chair. “You don’t understand. I feel it. The stage is still inside me, pulling me back whether I want it or not. If I go there now, if I face it on my own terms, then I might be able to break it. I can finally stop it.”
Her expression softens, but her voice is firm. “I do understand. That’s why I can’t let you rush into this. A site session like this requires preparation—risk protocols, consent paperwork, safety measures. If we go in blind, I can’t protect you.”
Paperwork. The word grates, absurd in the face of what I’m carrying. How can that be what stands between me and my baby girl?
“Paperwork?” My voice rises, ragged. “Laurel didn’t hand me a consent form before she put the spool in my hands. She didn’t give me a pen when she told me to smile and hurt other children. I didn’t get to choose then, but I’m choosing now.”
Dr. Hanson doesn’t flinch. She lets the silence stretch until my breathing evens, if only a little.
Finally she says, “If you truly want to reclaim that stage, then we do it right. No one drags you back there, not even your own urgency. We go prepared. I’ll handle the paperwork, and I’ll make sure there are safeguards in place. You’ll have control.”
Her calm words chip away at the panic but don’t erase it. My hands still shake. My body is already halfway there, already walking those aisles.
But I force myself to nod. “Fine. Paperwork. But don’t make me wait long.”
“I won’t,” she says softly. “I promise.”
I grip the chair harder, the wood digging into my palms. Waiting even one more day feels like torture.
But if it means I won’t face the stage alone, maybe—just maybe—I can bear it.