“You seem angry.” The calm voice of my therapists tone stretched and turned the atmosphere, echoing off every object, every surface. It brought an uncomfortable chill to my bones. He wanted an answer, but for reasons unknown to me, I could never quite bring myself to voice a reply—at least not confidently, not right away.

Timidly, I looked away from my shaking hands to his blank expression. I hated readless people because you could never place what they were thinking, what they might do next. An open book was my comfort place. But Mr. Moreo reminded me of those secretive ones with the dark hardcovers and a chain around it with a lock, its contents guarded away from society forever. And he could never be opened, he could never be read. It was difficult to trust a person when you knew nothing about them, but they knew more about you than you yourself did.

“Of course, you don’t have to answer that. We can move on to the next question.” He crossed his leg over the other, placing his clipboard to the side when he saw me open my mouth. He waited. I waited. The world was still, set in a concrete box of a room where everything was so familiar, but so unfamiliar. Every Friday we met here and spoke. Every week it got harder to do so. They told me—the people that brought me here—everything would be easier after a while. I wasn’t aware of how long it’d been, but all I knew was how much unease I felt the longer I stayed. Not that I even had the choice to leave, anyway.

Anytime I’d asked Mr. Moreo, all he said was “Sooner now,” and changed the subject faster than I could swollow the tight feeling in my throat.

He always asked the same questions every session. At this point, I’d them memorized, and fully expected to hear them every appointment.

1. How are you doing today?

2. Do you feel protected?

3. Have you had any nightmares?

4. Do you recall anything from the past three years?

5. Do you want to talk to me about what happened?

The oddest one of them all was the fifth question. Was I _supposed_ to know something, or were they making sure I couldn’t remember a thing before being here? Possibly both. Definitely both. But if that were true, I couldn’t begin to trace why Mr. Moreo would need that information. I wasn’t that special. I was never very important. I remembered that much.

It was disconcerting—living constantly knowing something was missing, feeling it everywehere within yourself, but never being able to find exactly what it was. My head was an endless space of uncertainty. If there were a way to see inside for themselves, they would find nothing. Nothing but confusion. I was lost in my own abyss of thought. It was as though my mind was preventing me from remembering anything, and the closer I got, the further it hid my memories away.

Some part of me didn’t want them back. Whatever they were, they couldn’t be good if my body was trying so hard to keep them from resurfacing. Maybe it was better if I just gave up.

Finally, I forced myself to speak. “I’m not angry.” I wasn’t exactly sure what it was I was feeling. That was as much as I could manage to say, anyway.

The unnerving silence that followed caused me to be antsy. I fidgeted with my bracelet—the only piece of my life before that they allowed me to keep. All I knew was that my mother had given it to me. They told me she had died when I was young. I wanted to trust these people. After all, they’ve taken good care of me. But everything around this place felt…like secrets. They told me I could leave my room whenever I wanted. I could go anywhere in the building, freely. But something about the way Mr Moreo’s eyes looked when he’d told me this, was strange. There was a certain glint behind his stoicism that I couldn’t make sense of.

Mr Moreo leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You don’t have to lie, you know.” Her heart skipped a beat, and she stopped playing with her bracelet, peering up from its shiny pearls.

“Pardon—?”

“Now Mrs Stellar, forgive me, but I’m taking the liberty of going off track.” I blinked at his words, puzzled. What could he mean?

“Excuse me, but did you refer to me as _Misus?”_ I inquired, both terrified and intrigued—but mostly the first one.

He ignored my question. “I’m sure you are well familiar with the usual questions.”

My palms began to sweat. Though I knew full well this was a statement and not another question, I still nodded. I had the feeling he needed to be positive I was still paying good attention.

“Right then,” he said. “I have one of my own, today, if you don’t mind?” My curiosity got the best of me, and I told him he could proceed. If I had said otherwise, I doubt he wouldn’t have continued anyway, though. He was dangerous. Something deep within myself was telling me that. The way he acted toward me—it wasn’t because he was good. It was because he wanted to _seem _good. So that I wouldn’t question anything. So that I would comply with everything. If he could hear my thoughts right now, I don’t know what he’d do.

I pause. He was staring at my hands, I suddenly noticed. I stopped fidgeting because an unsettling feeling came over me. Like he was hearing my every thought, taking note of my every move.

“What do you think of this place, Mrs Stellar?” He asked, finally meeting my eyes. I kept my hands still, even though it was awkward and uncomfortable to sit so frozen. Moments before, I had felt clammy and sweaty; now, my body had run cold.

What reason could he have had for asking my this? It felt like some sort of trap. He wanted me to answer this honestly, but what if my answer was too positive?—Far too much so to be so fidgety after a long while of being here. Or what if I’m too straightforward? I couldn’t think of anything to say, because no matter what I came up with, it would raise suspicion.

_Keep the eye contact, _I told myself. No, I was being too quiet—

As if hearing my mental distress, he sat up and uncrossed his legs, putting his things together. “That’s quite alright, Mrs Stellar,” he assured me. “Sometimes the best thing one can do is _remain silent.” _

I watched him walk across the room to the door, his hand resting on the cool, metal handle. “Have a good rest of your day.”

Then he was gone. When I checked the clock on the wall to the right of my vision, I realized we had went over our usual time. Mr Moreo was a stickler for things being perfectly on time. I knew that much.

Hesitantly, I stood to leave, once I was certain I wouldn’t run into him on my way back to my room. But I couldn’t help but feel even more nervous than before. That was a warning, I was sure of it—it was a warning from all of them.

_Stay silent. _

_Stay silent. _

__

__

It echoed through my head, and that was when I realized how truly alone, how very defenseless I was.