Chapter 26
Corine
The hallway lights are too bright.
Each step back to the ward feels heavier than the last. My legs ache from the treatment, but it's the kind of ache I can't name-like my bones remember something I've already forgotten. Everything is quiet. The kind of quiet that rings in your ears.
Dr. Bennett walks beside me, holding my chart, not saying much. She's always calm. She doesn't say things unless she means them. That's one of the few things I trust about her. But today, even her silence feels louder than usual.
We stop outside my room-or what used to be mine.
"I have some news," she says, adjusting the strap of her clipboard. "There was a pipe leak while you were in treatment. Your room flooded."
I blink at her, not quite processing.
"Water damage," she clarifies. "Your things were moved out quickly. Nothing's ruined, but the repairs will take a couple of days."
I nod. Slowly. "So... where am I sleeping?"
She gestures down the hall. "Room 27. You'll be sharing with Brittany. Just for a little while."
"Brittany?" I repeat.
"She's quiet. Kind. She won't bother you." Then, as if reading the question on my face, she adds, "I'll check in with you both tonight. If it's too much, we'll adjust."
Roommates.
God.
I don't say anything else. Just walk.
When I enter the room, it smells like lavender and antiseptic. There are stickers-cartoon stars and rainbows-neatly lined on the dresser. A few small stuffed animals are sitting in a row on one of the beds. I realize which side is hers immediately.
She's sitting cross-legged on the floor, in pink socks, humming softly to herself as she flips through a coloring book. Her light brown hair is tied up in two puffy buns, and she's wearing pajama pants covered in little cartoon ducks.
She looks up when I enter.
Her eyes are wide, cautious. Like I'm some animal that might bite.
"Hi," she says quietly.
I pause in the doorway. "Hi."
A long beat passes.
She blinks, then points to the bed across from hers. "That one's yours now."
I nod. "Thanks."
I walk in, dragging my small bag with me. They'd already moved most of my things. Neatly placed, labeled. I sit on the edge of the bed, my body still sore from earlier, my throat like paper. I don't look at her, not right away. I don't know what to say.
I didn't expect to be seen today, much less seen by someone new.
After a minute, she gets up and walks over, still humming. She's holding a green crayon. "Do you like ducks?"
"What?" I blink up at her.
She points at her pants. "They're funny. I think they make good noises."
I stare at her for a second before letting out a breath-half a laugh, half an exhale I didn't know I was holding. "I never really thought about it."
She shrugs and goes back to her coloring book. "I think they're happy."
A silence settles between us again.
I sit there, rubbing my palms against my knees. My brain feels slow, disconnected. But her presence is oddly calming. Not because she's comforting, but because she's... simple. There's no pressure to talk. No probing questions. No clipped words dressed in professional kindness.
Just... crayons and ducks.
After a while, she speaks again. "Did you cry today?"
My breath catches.
I glance at her. "Why would you ask that?"
She shrugs again, like it's the most normal thing in the world. "I cry a lot. I cried today when the nurse took my plushie to wash it. She promised to give it back, but it felt like lying."
I watch her for a moment. She's not joking. There's an innocence to her words, a strange purity I haven't seen in years.
"I cried too," I say finally, my voice barely a whisper.
She nods solemnly. "Did it help?"
"No," I say honestly. "Not even a little."
She seems to think about that. Then goes back to her coloring. "Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes I cry so hard my chest hurts. But I think it's better than not crying. Because the not-crying days feel like screaming in a bottle."
I stare at her.
That hits harder than I expect.
"Yeah," I whisper. "Screaming in a bottle. That's exactly what it feels like."
She looks over at me again, this time with a little smile. "I knew you'd get it. You look like someone who knows."
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I do."
The evening passes slowly. She colors. I lie down and stare at the ceiling. For the first time in days, I don't feel completely alone. And it's strange. Because we're not talking about family. Or trauma. Or what led us here. We're just... coexisting.
Later, she brings over her coloring book.
"Do you want to help me with this page?"
I glance at it. A castle and a dragon, half-finished. "Sure."
She sits next to me, our shoulders almost touching. She hands me a purple crayon. "I want to make the dragon sparkly."
I take it. "Purple is a strong color."
She grins. "That's why it's perfect."
As we color in silence, something softens in my chest. The tension doesn't leave completely-but there's a moment, brief and flickering, where I don't feel the crushing weight of everything I've lost.
Just a crayon in my hand and a girl who thinks ducks are happy.
"I'm glad your room flooded," she says suddenly.
I look at her, surprised.
She shrugs. "You're nice. You don't talk too loud. And your sadness isn't scary."
That almost makes me cry. I blink quickly to push it back.
"Thanks, Brittany."
She smiles and offers me the gold crayon next. "This is for the castle windows. They deserve to shine."
And in that small, strange moment-with gold crayon in hand and the echo of electroshock still in my bones-I almost believe they can.