Chapter 26
Kenzi
The hours and days blur together until the session lands on me like a heavy weight.
Dr. Hanson made me wait longer than I wanted because this is no ordinary session.
She needed paperwork, approvals, and clearance for a site visit to the condemned Radley theater.
The admins at Radley had a lot of questions, not surprisingly.
I wanted to scream every time I saw her, and we couldn’t charge in, but now it’s time, and I can barely breathe.
The theater looms in my mind long before we even set foot inside.
I dream of the stage, the heavy curtains, the smell of dust and paint.
I dream of the lights heating my skin until I can’t tell where my body ends and the performance begins.
This morning, Dr. Hanson lays out the rules once more, her voice calm and steady as always.
“We’ll go in together, but you won’t go anywhere unless you feel ready.
If at any point it’s too much, you say to stop.
I’ll ground you, and we leave. If this doesn’t work, we can still move forward with your process as we’ve been doing. ”
I nod, but inside I’m screaming. Yes, I’ll sit, I’ll stand, and I’ll even perform if I have to because it’s the only way to take back the stage.
She studies me a moment longer. “Kenzi, you know this carries risk. I’m not just talking about panic. Immersion therapy, especially in an environment like this, can reinforce the trauma if we push too far. If you slip into programming, you might not come out easily.”
Her words are steady, but I hear the fear underneath them. Fear for me.
“I don’t want easy.” I surprise myself with how firm my voice is. “All I want is out of this mess, and the only way out is through. We do this, and I’m not backing away.”
“But you can if you change your mind.” Her eyes soften, and she gathers her notes, her recorder, her grounding tools—the props of therapy that look so small compared to the theater waiting for me.
As we walk toward the car, the wind carries the faintest scent of rain. My stomach twists. I’m actually doing this. I can hardly think. The drive feels too short. One minute the city’s behind us, and the next we’re on a narrow road swallowed by trees. My pulse thuds harder with every turn.
Then we arrive at the Radley parking lot. Once we begin our trek through the woods, everything inside me comes alive.
When the theater finally appears, my breath catches. The condemned building is only a shell, but I know the moment I step inside, it will all come alive again. Maybe more than it did before. This time, I’ll have to find a way to tell myself I’m not a puppet. I’m the one holding the script.
A string of police tape hangs limply, reminding me of the last time I was here. The windows are boarded, paint peeling in long strips. Rust stains streak the once-white stone like tears.
But my body doesn’t see ruin. It remembers. My hands move on their own—checking posture, smoothing invisible fabric… the first steps of a performance I don’t want to give.
Dr. Hanson speaks. “Kenzi. Look at me.”
I drag my gaze to her. She presses a small stone into my palm. “Anchor. Cold. Real. You’re here, not there.”
The stone bites into my skin, grounding me just enough to stop the gestures. I cling to it.
We step closer. The entrance looms, its heavy double doors chained but crooked, like someone forced them open and never closed them again. A dark gap gapes between wood and frame, breathing out dust and damp.
I stop at the threshold. My chest tightens, a sour taste rising in my throat. This is where it began. The place they turned children into performers, pain into entertainment, obedience into a script we could never stop reciting.
My fingers curl around the stone until they ache. “I can’t do this.”
Dr. Hanson’s voice is steady. “Yes, you can. Not alone, but with me.”
I swallow hard, forcing my feet forward. One step. Then another.
The theater waits, shadows thick and silent, ready to swallow me whole.
But it won’t. Not this time.
I’m two steps from the threshold when I freeze. The air that drifts out of the gap isn’t just dust and damp, and it carries something else. A whisper so faint I almost mistake it for the wind.
Places, everyone.
My chest seizes. I know that voice. Laurel’s. Crisp and commanding, threaded with false sweetness.
I grip the stone so hard the edges dig into my palm. “Did you hear that?” My voice cracks.
Dr. Hanson shakes her head, calm as ever. “No one’s here, Kenzi. Just us.”
But the whisper lingers in my ears, curling like smoke after a fire has ravaged.
I whisper back, more to myself than to her. “She’s still in there.”
Dr. Hanson places a grounding hand on my shoulder. “Laurel isn’t here. Only echoes remain here. You’re hearing echoes from your past.”
I nod, but my body doesn’t believe her. My skin prickles as if stage lights are already burning down, waiting for me to step into my cue.
The whisper fades, leaving only silence. Somehow, that’s worse.
I draw in a trembling breath. “Let’s go in.”
She nods and waits for me to take the lead.
The door groans as I push it open, a long metallic wail that makes me flinch. My heart pounds like a jackhammer though I try not to show it.
Inside, the air is thicker, stale with dust and mold. The faintest trace of something sweeter lingers beneath it—like powder makeup left too long in its case. My stomach turns.
Maybe this was a bad idea. Even so, we’re here. I don’t want to wait again for Dr. Hanson to get permission to return. This already took too long. I have to be brave.
The aisles stretch ahead, rows of broken seats draped in cobwebs. Some are torn open, their stuffing spilling like wounds.
I force myself to walk between them, each step sinking into the carpet that crunches with grit.
My mind doesn’t see ruin. The theater stretches before me, alive and in living color.
Children in costumes, stiff smiles painted over fear.
Laurel paces the aisles, correcting posture, demanding louder lines, bigger gestures.
Adults in the back rows, clipboards in hand, watching us perform pain like it was art.
My throat tightens. The pull is strong, dragging me backward into the memory.
Dr. Hanson’s voice cuts through it all, a steady force. “Tell me what’s really here, Kenzi. Right now in front of us.”
I squeeze the stone in my fist, grounding myself. My gaze darts around, and I force myself to name what I see. “Seats. Torn fabric. Dust. Emptiness.”
Her voice softens. “Good. Stay here. The past has left.”
My body keeps shifting, posture correcting itself, my lips twitching toward a smile I don’t want to wear. I force them still.
“I’m not on stage,” I whisper to myself. “I’m not on stage.”
The aisles stretch forward, darker with each step. And at the end… the stage waits, shrouded in shadow, a mouth open wide.
My pulse quickens. The whispers haven’t returned, but the silence feels just as loud.
The closer I get, the heavier the air presses on me, thick with dust and ghosts. The stage looms ahead, its curtain sagging in tatters, the wood warped with age.
My legs tremble as I step up. The boards creak under my weight—different, older, but my body remembers the rhythm.
And then it happens. A flicker followed by a flood. The theater isn’t empty anymore.
The seats are full rows of faces half-hidden in shadow, clipboards glinting under the stage lights. Laurel’s voice snaps through the air. “Smile wider, Kenzi. No one wants to see your fear.”
My mouth stretches against my will. My hand jerks into place, the white spool shoved into it. I remember its weight, the way it passed from child to child like a curse.
And then a boy, no older than eight, standing across from me. His eyes are wide, pleading. He’s shaking.
Laurel’s command cuts through. “Your turn. Make him perform.”
My chest seizes. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to, but my body responds anyway. My hand reaches out, my voice rising in a singsong line I was taught. The boy obeys, tears streaking his face as he lifts his arm and strikes himself, again and again… because I told him to.
I choke, dropping to my knees. “I didn’t want to!”
The boards are real under me, splinters biting my palms, but the memory keeps rolling. His sobs echo in my ears. My command is the knife that cut him, and Laurel’s approving smile is the applause that sealed it.
I press the stone into my palm until it draws blood. “I was a puppet, and I made him bleed.”
Dr. Hanson’s voice is urgent, steady, trying to cut through. “Kenzi, you were forced. That wasn’t your choice. You were controlled.”
But I can’t shake the image of his eyes, the betrayal in them.
Hot anger rises, cutting through the shame. I look up at the shadowed rows, at the ghosts of the audience. My voice is hoarse, but strong. “No more. I’m done dancing for her. For them. If I want to stop this—if I want Fenna safe—I have to face him. The one who wrote the script.”
Dr. Hanson kneels beside me, her hand light on my shoulder. “You mean Dr. Radley?”
I nod, my chest heaving. “Yes, him. I have to face Dr. Radley. It’s the only way.”
The stage creaks under me, the now-empty theater swallowing my vow like it’s listening.
For the first time, I feel something sharper than fear.
Resolve.