“You control your thoughts.

You control your attitude.

You control your actions.”

She tapped her pen on the ink-filled paper. My leg shook a constant up-and-down motion, getting faster with each of the therapist’s words. It was the only sound in the room despite the ticking grandfather clock. She was older than it and had a small British accent. Mrs. Charlotte took her glasses off and folded them with frail, spotted fingers. “Do you ever feel like you cannot control these things, Rylee?”

I knew she was paid a good amount to talk to me like she was converting a devil into something better. I knew she didn’t do a lick of good in me. If anything, she made things worse. I licked my lips slowly and leaned forward so my leg would stop moving on its own.

“The voices I hear,” I shake my head and smile, “I swear sometimes you see them too.”

Her brows furrow and she moves her head slightly to the side, so she’s looking at me sideways. I hate when she does that. “What makes you think such a thing?”

“Besides the weird looks you give me, besides the writing you do on that paper,” I lean back and cross my legs. I bring a cold hand to my chin. They’re always cold. “Despite it all, I almost like you. Because I think you see. You see what I see.”

She puts her glasses back on and scribbles something down. I hate that too. But she buys my lies like they might be going out of stock. I promise they won’t- although I use up one with each ‘I’m okay’.

“What do you see?” She looks back up at me, her grey-ish eyes nearly look dead, darkened. Faded.

“I hear voices. I see shadows that move. Ones that don’t belong to anything here. Nothing alive, breathing. Ones that shift and change. They answer and talk.”

“There was a boy that came here. He saw stuff all the time. Do you believe you are like him?” She’s comparing. I hate that too. But I won’t let her know she’s getting under my skin, she likes that more than the devil likes her sinners. But that’s okay; I’ve learned to be emotionless. Even with the blood on my hands, I shrug.

“Do I know him? Then I’d guess not.”

“Do you think you see what he sees?”

“No. I don’t see what he sees.”

“Why do you say this?”

Anger boils up and I grin. She knows it’s fake, because my dimple didn’t show. She sits back and takes her glasses off again.

“Rylee?”

I don’t have an answer. I don’t know why they told me I didn’t see what he sees. I wait. Wait for them to tell me something else. I bite my tongue out of bitterness and shrug again.

“I think they are keeping secrets.”

She pulls back like I slapped her across the face. That’s when I show her the dimple, because a fragile little bunny just landed in my well set trap.

And I think I just might’ve snapped its neck.