Katherine

“How can someone do that?”

“Can you specify what that is for you?”

Katherine stayed silent. She was looking over Cecillia’s shoulder, as she usually did during most of their sessions. It was impressive, almost threatening, given that her arms were the size of her psychotherapist’s legs. Dr Moss wasn’t a large woman, but still. She had seen people as thin as wicker. Besides, Dr Moss was an ally, and in a worst-case scenario, she was trained to spot warning signs before any potential incident.

“You’ve read my file, so you know what that was,” Katherine replied with a hint of bitterness.

“I have. But would you describe it today?” Dr Moss rephrased.

“I don’t… I’m not sure I can talk about it today,” she said, her breath quickening.

She noticed it herself and took back control. She focused on a tall book behind Cecillia, losing herself in a calm thought. Her breathing gradually returned to normal. Moments later, it was steady again. But her eyes remained distant.

“You don’t have to,” Dr Moss confirmed. “I’d like us to keep that in mind, since it seems to resurface often. Indeed, we will progress at your pace.”

“Thanks,” her patient replied, settling deeper into the large armchair

“You don’t have to thank me, but I appreciate it.”

Cecillia met her patient’s gaze for just a split second. Nevertheless, progress was being made.

“You mentioned a party last week you were supposed to attend. How did it go?”

“We arrived late. Nobody ever shows up on time anyway” she said, imitating a diva.

“You went with someone?”

“My cousin, Alice. She gave me a lift. She’s dating a member of the club, a swimmer or maybe a handbaler, I’m not sure. She’s a nice girl overall. She works at a bakery and helps at the local food shelter. A good match for a hippie like Alice.”

“Did you spend the whole party with them?”

“The first bunch of hours. She insisted on staying by my side.”

“Did that bother you?”

“Usually, it probably would have. But I appreciated it. It was … comfortable. She’s colourful. It helps chase the shadows, literally.”

Cecillia was taking notes when the ink from her pen began to dribble more than necessary. The word “shadows,” now thickened, had transformed her neat handwriting into something barely readable. She tried to rewrite it, but only made it worse. The word became unsettling. She scratched it out, but it blended into a puddle of black ink, with two white eyes staring at her. In one swift motion, she slashed through them, piercing the page.

“I refused, but he still stayed…” Katherine trailed off, wondering if her therapist was really listening or if she had already tuned out.

Cecillia recalled what she had heard when her mind wandered: the party, a friend, and a boxer, too. The conversation was ‘light’ and mostly ‘stupid,’ as her patient put it. They continued talking and went to the kitchen. A drink! She turned it down.

“Why did you refuse it?” the psychotherapist asked to show she was still listening.

“I rarely drink alcohol; I wasn’t in the mood for it. When he got it, he insisted on making me a virgin cocktail,” she laughed. “In the end, he made me a milkshake with a marshmallow.”

“You seem to like him,” Cecillia smiled.

But Katherine leaned forward. She crossed her arms and looked over Cecillia’s shoulder.

“Maybe,” she said flatly.

“Did that go too fast? Did he?”

“Yes, no. He touched my arm, and it was fine. I… I thought it would be too much.I had feared nobody could touch me anymore, but it was fine.” Katherine avoided her therapist’s gaze, and something she wanted to say hovered on the edge of her mind.

“It’s important to find people, especially men, whom you can get close to. It will help you. But it needs to be at your rhythm. Is there something that troubles you during your discussion?”

“He called me Kate.”

“How did you feel?”

“I wanted him to call me Kate, a million more times. But I hated him for it too.”

“Why do you think that was the case?”

“Most of my friends call me ‘Number 7.’ It was my number on my basketball team, and it’s a username I use online. Over time, it stuck. I like it. It feels more like me than Katherine. 7 is a lucky number, or so people say.”

“Do you hate the name Kate?”

“It hasn’t been me for years. Even my family doesn’t call me that anymore. I… I don’t hate it. I don’t like it anymore. It feels like an insult.”

“Could you explain why?”

“He called me that.”

“But you said it felt like an insult. Is that not the case anymore?”

“It still does. But I don’t want it to. I don’t get why it should be his trophy. It’s a leash that strangles me, and I want to tear it down. I don’t think I hear it anymore. It’s more like people are throwing up when they call me… when they use that name. “

Katherine sank back into her chair. She stared vacantly outside. The sky was blue, and the rooftops were grey, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t really looking anyway. She gripped the armrest without even noticing. Her chest heaved with each breath. She was fighting battles on all sides, each lurking at the edges of her vision.

Cecillia let her breathe. She knew opening up always took its toll. She was there to guide her, help her understand, and progress. She was there to help, not judge. And more often than people realised, she was like today, mainly here to hand out tissues. Katherine accepted the thin white tissue without hesitation. She rubbed her entire face with it and grabbed another to blow her nose.

“Why am I angry with myself?”

“What are you angry with yourself for?”

“I didn’t fight back. I barely made a sound. He crawled over me. I can barely remember him, and what I do remember, I don’t… understand. Why couldn’t I have fought back?”

That is a question many victims ask themselves. It’s such a simple question, yet so painfully hard to answer. The answer depends on many factors, but often it’s like they could have fought back, but they didn’t. Sadly, it’s a normal reaction. A primal fear of the unknown consequences. Will I survive if I do something? Will I die?

“He caught me off guard. I was paralysed by something. He talked so much. He talked me into this. He was just a shadow on the porch. His small eyes, hidden beneath his ridiculous hat, scrutinised my body on the floor. He wasn’t even on top of me at this point. I could have run, smashed him, or at least screamed.”

Cecillia could see the man bending over her. She was frozen in place by an invisible force. He commanded her body. She cast the vision away. He wasn’t there anymore, but his imprint remained. Katherine was fuming, livid and afraid, but mostly angry at everything.

“Nobody showed up,” she spat. “Not my sisters, not my brother, not my mother. Not even the dog reacted to what happened. I saw that bastard open an eye, look at what was happening, and turn around in his bed. I remember his weight on me, but it feels like a distant impression now. His breath on my neck, and the shadow of his stupid hat cast on the wall.”

Katherine’s face blurred. She was just a silhouette with a hat, laughing in a voice as deep as the human ear can hear. She caressed her body, transforming into a mass of flesh, a disgusting, lustful mass. In this black-and-white world, the situation was as dark as it could be. Yet Katherine still thought it was her fault.

“I let him get everything and it destroyed me. And I couldn’t remember anything, not even why I let him do it. My brain is trying to make me crazy!” Katherine burst.

“Your brain is trying to protect you,” Cecillia explained.

She knew it was not the most pleasant feeling, but it could be explained.

“When you live through traumatic experiences, your brain can isolate you, make you distant from yourself, and make you forget. It’s a form of protection.”

“I have to forget to be protected?” Katherine looked at Cecillia directly. She was begging for answers. Her psychotherapist was frozen, caught in the intensity of Katherine’s gaze. Locked in place, the young boxer wouldn’t let her go. She knew it was not a conscious behaviour. She was angry but not at her. Cecillia took a deep breath.

“In a way, that is how your brain processed it,” she simply replied. And it helped ease her patient already.

“Will I remember it one day?”

“It is a possibility, but it’s not common.”

“It’s not fair. I can’t even control myself.”

“I agree it isn’t. But you will grow over it, you already do. You thought you weren’t ready, but you talked about it today. That’s progress, a step towards taking back control.”

“You think?”

“I do,” she confirmed with a nod and a calm smile.

“Maybe,” she said with a smile pointing on the edge of her mouth too.

“How do you feel about the fact you were finally able to talk about it?”

“It felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted. And, it’s strange, because it was like I put it there myself. But I can see the door is wide open now. I think… I would like to talk more about it, let it go.”

“That is an enormous progress! You can be proud!”

“Thanks,” Katherine let explode from the bottom of the heart with her palm open to the sky.

Her hand cast a shadow that covered Cecillia’s ankle. For a second, the therapist was locked up once more. She couldn’t make sense of it. She kicked the air and realised there was no need to make sense of it, as she was as free as she always was.

“Our time is nearly coming to an end now. But once again, you made enormous progress today. So, let’s call it a day. I can see that was not simple so let me acknowledge it and from now I can see it will be mainly progress.”

Her client stood up in what was nearly a jump. She looked left and right. Her eyes skimmed the book titles. She looked at the plants, she looked outside. She looked at her therapist scribing some last notes. Finally, Cecillia stood up too and accompanied her to the exit door. When they were sitting Katherine was already taller than Cecillia but now, she was probably one and half head taller than her therapist and twice as large as her. That was one truth many people would hopefully never have to realise, but even a lady built like her could be a victim. She left with renewed energy and a lighter heart. Her psychotherapist couldn’t hope for more.

It was late, and the day had been draining for both of them. And now, the empty consulting room was not inviting enough to stay longer. Cecillia opened the closet and faced her long coat hanging silently. She bypassed its presence, grabbed it and left her home.

The Pineapple’s Hand was a shitty bar. The beers were average at best, the food was okay-ish and the music was a good mix of metal genres. No, the shitty thing was the layout. The bar was made up of two long, narrow rooms with not enough space around the tables. So why go there? It was their bar. Cecillia, Garf and Eloise went there since uni.

As usual, Garf was already there, typing. Another advantage of this bar was that they didn’t ask him for his ID anymore, which was good for someone his size. His glass was empty. She nodded at him and headed back to the bar. She knew what he would take, an IPA, as if it was something drinkable. She ordered it with a pale ale for her and a cider for Eloise.

Waiting for the rest of the order to arrive, she started drawing with the condensation on the fresh IPA glass. She wasn’t aiming for anything specific. It was a circle next to one line, another line, then more. The drop that accumulated with her last swipe was too heavy and slid down, joining everything. She giggled at how those imprecise voids ended up forming an approximation of a hand on the glass. Cecillia imagined the fingers moving as the condensation evolved. There were even drops large enough to form nails on each finger, perfectly aligned. One of them reflected it, a hat barely hiding two eyes. In front of her, on the other side of the bar, a massive shadow seemed to peer into her soul. The hand broke free from the glass and seized her wrist. The deathly grip froze her bones so deeply they could have been shattered with a snap. Cecillia yanked her wrist free, pushing herself away from the bar. She stumbled. Thankfully, someone was there to grab her, someone she was expecting: Eloise.

“I hope that wasn’t mine,” she said, pointing to the spilled glass on the bar.

“No, it’s Garf’s.” Cecillia stammered as she was recovering.

“What was that?” her friend asked, concerned.

“I saw … I lost my balance,”

“What a scream! I wanted to surprise you, but you beat me to it.”

Cecillia couldn’t remember any scream. Did she scream? That would be normal when you fall. She probably hadn’t noticed.. The day had been long.

“You’re okay?”

“Yes, no worries. I haven’t started drinking yet.” Cecillia joked.

“I hope so!” Eloise commented while moving toward their table.

The barman, a slim, grey-beard man, kindly replaced the drink. He judged Cecillia as she observed his baldness with too much attention. Caught in the act, she apologised for everything, paid, and ran to her friends.

“You haven’t taken that case?!” Garf immediately attacked her when she sat down at the table.

“First, thanks Eloise,” she blamed her friend for not being able to keep anything from Garf. Or from her, for that matter. “Second, the day was long. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We respect that,” Garf replied kindly.

After her third pint, Garf brought it up again.

“You haven’t taken that case?!”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she replied, annoyed. “My day was long, please. How was work for you?”

Her friend proceeded to describe a patient’s mother’s improbably high-fashion dress. Cecillia downed her pint.

After two more pints, Cecillia was in a good spot. Probably a little bit too good. And, of course, Garf brought it up again.

“You haven’t taken that case?!”

“Yes, I took it,” Cecillia admitted, her tone sharp but wavering. “But it’s not a big deal. She’s just another patient.”
“You said it was similar,” Eloise remarked quietly, her concern cutting through the bar’s noise.
“It’s not the same,” Cecillia insisted, almost to herself. “Her symptoms are different. She’s already recovering. I’m fine. I’ve moved on.”

“And the stress is still there,” the child psychotherapist said.

“Don’t try to diagnose me, miss,” Cecillia shot back.

“Try to make sense of her,” Eloise complained to Garf.

“She is old enough to know when to seek a colleague,” he started before counterargumenting. “But on the other hand, we studied many cases where relapse was triggered by very little events.”

“Betrayed!” Cecillia dramatically shouted as she glared at her friend.

“Maybe you should listen to others sometime,” Eloise argued as if she was her mother.

“He is not even a real psychotherapist!” she joked.

“That’s little to you to bring that in,”

“So, it’s good for you!” she added, pointing at her friend’s legs that didn’t quite reach the floor.

“You are an asshole!” he said, his eyes wide. That was far from being the first or the most hurtful joke on his size they made. But it was still too much today.

“Sorry,” she apologised, partially sobering as the ambiance shifted. “I couldn’t really refuse a client. It was to prove I’ve moved on. Plus, she is the daughter of one of my father’s close friends,”

“I see a conflict of interest,” Eloise pointed, her eyes darting away, as if she hadn’t said it. It was a pathetic attempt of discretion and argumentation, maybe the fact it was her third drink didn’t help.

“I barely met her parents at some family dinner. That’s not a conflict of interest. But something’s off. I think it’s her smile. It seemed patronising.”

Cecillia was not convinced by her friends’ advocacy but they tried sincerely. They were genuinely worried.

“I will see if I can recommend her to someone else,” she finally agreed, “but I want a cookie.”

“That’s childish!” Eloise protested.

“Yes,” Garf agreed, “but I want more of your delicious cookies next week too, so I vote for that as a fair trade!”

Eloise looked daggers at her little friend.

“That’s a serious discussion,” she objected.

“Oh, yes, it is!” Cecillia playfully confirmed.

“You two will kill me one day.”

“But we are too adorable for that.” Garf argued, giving her a playful look.

“Okay, no more investigation on this case?”

“Nothing more than what’s needed to let her go,” Cecillia lied.

The next few days passed quickly. Cecillia slept through most of Saturday, then spent the rest of the day reading. Sunday was equally restful as she embraced the ‘potato life,’ binge-watching her latest K-drama.  She only took a break when darkness reminded her that she should eat. The instant noodles seemed to be the perfect blend of simplicity and comfort. While waiting for the water to boil, she absentmindedly checked her phone. She went fast through her emails, then her messages. She scrolled through her social networks, mindlessly jumping from one post to the next.

Her father had just returned from a reunion trip in Wales, where he had somehow managed to burn himself. Out of curiosity, Cecillia browsed his friends’ profiles, and from the mother’s page, she ended up on the daughter’s, her patient, Katherine. The psychotherapist usually avoided spying on her patients’ social media accounts. First, by respect. Second, because she wanted their version and built trust with them, not their fake persona. And Katherine was no exception. Her profile showed a polished version of herself: always with friends or family. Everyone appeared happy and healthy, smiling as if life were a glossy advertisement. Nothing on her activities. Strangely, there was nothing at all about what she did. In one photo from the party, she seemed fine, smiling and even leading her small group of friends. Katherine didn’t have any pictures or mentions of her boxing competitions. She didn’t post anything about her party last week. Her last post was her studying.

The most unhinged post featuring Katherine was a cringeworthy family Harlem Shake video her brother had uploaded. She seemed to be around high-school age. At first, she and one of her brothers acted as if they had discovered some old clothes in the closet and came up with an idea. Then the music started. The twist of the meme caught Cecillia. Her heart stopped. She had seen countless videos like this. Ordinary scenes suddenly broke into chaotic dancing in ridiculous costumes. But one of the costumes sent a chill down her spine: a wide-brimmed brown hat and a long coat. The hat and coat. And beneath them, smiling, was a younger Katherine. Her eyes turned to the camera with a primal smile.

Cecillia shut down her phone. But on the screen lingered the imprint of its eyes on her, half-covered by the hat’s brim. Cecillia threw her phone that slid on the kitchen worktop. She was shaking.

The bell of the kettle dragged her back to reality. She grabbed her phone again. She needed to look at the screen. It could have been any other coat and hat, even if they looked alike. She blamed her overreaction on hunger. It was probably a coincidence. It had to be. But one more? Was it possible? After all, there was no way Katherine could have known… could she? And still, the timing was too perfect, the details too exact. Cecillia’s hands curled into fists.

The sun shone on both of them. Katherine wasn’t sure how to take the situation. Cecillia wanted to remain professional while still being sincere.  She explained her reasons honestly but kept the details of her private life to herself. Her former patient hesitated. Words were on the tip of her tongue. The psychotherapist took every precaution to ensure a smooth transition. Her colleague would arrive shortly, and they already had most of the necessary details. Nevertheless, she hoped this wouldn’t affect Katherine too deeply or hinder her recovery.

The afternoon sun shone so brightly in the room that it was hard to tell what Katherine was thinking. Katherine squinted, shielding her eyes from the harsh light. Cecillia lowered the window shutters to soften the light. While they were loudly closing, she asked why. Katherine wasn’t sure she understood. She asked if she had been a bad patient. Why didn’t Cecillia want to help her? How could she bond with another specialist? Why stop now, so close to a conclusion? She asked these questions without looking at her therapist, shielding herself from the sun, hiding her tears.

Cecillia started comforting her, responding with all her diplomacy tools. She had to compete with the unbearably slow shutters, their noise nearly drowning out her words. She was basically screaming over it. In reality she was fighting against her will to solve her patient herself. That would be her closing, and maybe only maybe she could understand their aggressor. She probably wouldn’t ever know who he was but might have caught a glimpse of what he was.

A knock at the door startled her. The shutter was finally down, sinking the place in a gloomier ambiance. It was time to say goodbye. On the sofa, the tough girl was hiding her sobbing. Cecillia steps from the window to the door felt heavier than ever. She despised herself for giving up so easily, even though she knew it was the right thing to do.

She looked at her patient. She avoided her eyes more than ever looking over her shoulder once more. She was curious why her therapist wouldn’t open the door. Behind Cecillia, the menacing door remained closed as two more knocks echoed through the room. Katherine wasn’t sobbing anymore; she was silently accusing her. She was accusing her of not wanting to open the door. Why wouldn’t she let her replacement, the colleague Cecillia had chosen, come in? She was accusing her of abandoning them both. Two more knocks. She was pushing her. She was silently urging her to open the giant door, as if the sheer weight of it mirrored the tension between them.

Three more knocks, each louder than the last. Cecillia turned. The door was gone. In its place, he stood. A tall, muscular figure loomed before her, cloaked in hatred and a trench coat. His silhouette wavered, barely maintaining its human form. He made one step forward. Cecillia tried to step back, but Katherine’s grip held her firmly in place. She was enjoying it. She had planned it. He took one more step. Cecillia’s wrists ached under Katherine’s unrelenting grip. She could feel the breath of the unmovable woman on her neck. The hated man made one more step and stopped. The room was so dark Cecillia was blind. She couldn’t move. She could barely remember who she was, what was happening, or where she stood. Darkness engulfed her vision until two devouring eyes pierced through the void.

Cecillia woke drenched in sweat. The sharp, acrid smell of urine clung to her. Her heart pounded so violently in her ears it felt like turbulence on an aeroplane. She breathed slowly, through gritted teeth. It was 5 a.m., and she knew she wouldn’t get any more sleep once more.

It was another sunny day, but Cecillia couldn’t pay much attention. The shutter was already half-closed, keeping the room dim. Patients paraded one after the other, each one talking endlessly, while she felt like an automaton. She was barely reacting to whatever they threw at her. Then came her turn.

Katherine entered smiling, settling comfortably into her seat. She wore a colourful dress that showed her muscular arms. No doubt she was sporty. Clearly, she looked as though she could win any arm-wrestling match or hold her own in a fight. Although she had concealed bruises with makeup, faint traces of them were still visible. She was looking outside. Though Katherine had just arrived, she already seemed eager to leave.

“You seem happy today,” the therapist started as her patient wouldn’t.

“Yes,” she bushed.

It was unsettling how quickly she had changed. She felt like another person, and it has been only a week.

“Could you let me know why?”

“I’m going to a restaurant tonight with the friends I mentioned last week. The other boxer.”

That explained the makeup, lipstick, and eyeliner. It was the first time she had worn makeup to a session. Cecillia stayed silent as her patient seemed to be inclined in adding details.

“It’s technically our second date, but the first one was more of a strange circumstance. We were both waiting for our train that had been cancelled so we took a drink and shared a croissant. When the cancellations piled up, we just went for a kind of snack diner and waited for the next available trains.”

Katherine was red, she ran a hand over the back of her head. She was in love and couldn’t really hide it. She was acting like a child even if they were around the same age. That wouldn’t really help them progress. If she kept acting like this, Katherine might be a better fit for Eloise. She rambled for a moment about her date, sharing details and even planning the next one.

“And does he call you Kate?” Cecillia asked to evaluate her progress.

“Sometimes, he slips sometimes.”

Katherine cooled down to a reasonable state. She wanted to make good use of her appointment, but at the same time all her mind was turned elsewhere. She had polished her nail for the first time in ages for tonight. She took all the small extra steps she thought of. Cecillia remembered the locking force her aggressor applied; the sturdy hand required. But Katherine continued.

“He noticed how it affected me but didn’t understand why, and…”

“How do you feel about that?” she interrupted her.

The interruption flustered Katherine. Cecillia saw she was searching for the right words.

“I think it’s okay. Not perfect, but I manage to handle that better,” Katherine simply replied with a smile.  

“So, the ‘Kate’ trouble is behind you?” her therapist asked.

Katherine started to feel more and more cornered. The conversation was not really friendly today. Still, she had a date tonight, and that gave her the energy to respond.

“Partially. It feels like all of that is now just a distant story. It’s been years, it’s unclear,” she replied, looking over her therapist’s shoulder, trying to judge how the response was caught from the corner of her eyes.

Cecillia was confused by her wording. Suddenly, she referred to it as just a distant story. True healing takes time. And on top of that, now she was judging her psychotherapist. Or were those constant glances over her shoulder part of a strategy?

“Are you sure it happened, if it’s only a story? And please look at me,” she demanded coldly.

The patient’s startled eyes meet her psychotherapist’s ones. She couldn’t understand why or what was happening. The question turned in a loop in her head. She… she wasn’t shocked. No, she was shocked, but more than that, she was pissed.

“Is it a real question?” she worried with big eyes.

“Yes, please answer.”

“Obviously, that really happened. Who the fuck would ask that now? Were you even there during our past sessions?”

“You better calm down!” Cecillia complained with a loud voice.

“No, nowadays I would have hoped to avoid the double punishment! “

“How do you explain all the similarities? You faked it. You learned it and scrubbed it in my face. That is what you love torturing people.”

“What similarities are you talking about?”

Katherine was exasperated and even more lost than before. She stood up and so did Cecillia.

“Admit you faked it! Tell me why?”

“Tell you what! You are crazy!” the boxer screamed.  

“Nobody heals with the snap of a finger. Unless, it was based on a lie. You learned it to torment me, how it could be so similar! How did you …”

Cecillia snapped. She got it, the truth. Her brain understood it before her. The muscular shape blurred in the dying day. The shadow made one step, Katherine did. Instinctively, the therapist tried to step back as a protection. Seeing the distress of the young lady, Katherine stepped back too.

“I can’t believe you,” Katherine protested with red eyes as she was grabbing her stuff.

Cecillia stayed silent, a few too many seconds for it to pass as a normal pause.

“So, we are two,” she attacked back, hesitating if she should call the police or not.  

“I will find someone else.”

“Yes, yes, you should,” she clumsily responded as Katherine was leaving.

“You need help!” Katherine said, her voice cracking with frustration.

“Go tell your lies to another victim!” she shot before slamming the door.

Cecillia stayed in front of the door. Her chest heaved painfully with every breath. Her eyes fixed on the door handle. An overwhelming urge to lash out consumed her. She couldn’t rely on her breathing exercises here. She couldn’t move. Tears welled up in her eyes, no matter how hard she tried to hold them back. She couldn’t even swallow, her throat tight. She couldn’t. She couldn’t. She couldn’t. She couldn’t. She couldn’t. She couldn’t.

A tear slid down her cheek. She collapsed to her knees and sobbed uncontrollably.

The darkness was nearly absolute when Cecillia finally stirred. She braced herself against the table to sit up. In her moves, she stumbled over several empty beer cans scattered across the table and floor. She tried to stand too quickly and collapsed back onto the sofa. Something hard pressed uncomfortably into her back. After fumbling for a few moments, she managed to grab it. It was her phone.

It was already 11 p.m., and Eloise had flooded her with messages.

– When are you coming? –

– You’re missing a fresh beer –

– Where are you? –

– How did it go for the transition? –

– Are you okay? –

– Respond, please –

 -Respond –

– Do you need help? –

– Did something happen? –

– Have the visions returned? –

The joke was on her! They never disappeared. They linger, like pain you simply learn to live with.

Cecillia’s head spun. Or perhaps it was the whole world. Katherine’s file lay open in front of her, displaying her picture, the police report, and her address. The young woman could still feel Katherine’s gaze on her, as vivid as if it were happening now. Her hands on her. The same hand she had been forced to shake when they first met. Katherine had avoided Cecillia’s eyes all this time on purpose. Anger flared in the psychotherapist at how easily she had been played. The folder remained open on the table.

Katherine lived only two blocks away, after all. They weren’t done yet. But Katherine was built like a monster. Cecillia would need something to defend herself. She knew she needed something to defend herself.

Whiskey burned Cecillia’s throat as she stumbled down the street, the house looming larger with each shaky step. Katherine wasn’t home, yet. Her parents’ car was parked in the driveway, but not hers. Cecillia waited, time dragging on as the world spun around her, but her focus didn’t waver.

A car arrived. Hers.

She parked, stepping out of the car with a wide, smug smile, like nothing was wrong. That bitch! She got home like nothing was wrong. Cecillia tottered up to the door. It wasn’t locked. Sweat slicked Cecillia’s palms, and her heart pounded so loudly she was sure the entire street could hear it.

She paused at the door, her hand trembling as it hovered over the handle. Just leave, she told herself. Walk away. But the image of Katherine smirking behind closed curtains sent a fresh wave of anger through her. She stepped inside, knife first. The house was silent, the entryway shrouded in darkness. Katherine had gone directly to the kitchen and only turned the light on there.

Cecillia immediately recognised the Harlem-shake background and the closet by the entry. She looked in the kitchen direction, but no one was coming now. She opened the closet door. There they were: THE coat hanging and THE hat waiting. The resemblance was uncanny, too deliberate to be a coincidence. They mirrored a past Cecillia had fought to bury. Now, here they were. Tangible, deliberate, mocking all her efforts to move on.

Her knees wobbled. She collapsed onto an old shoebox, tipping it over. Inside, she found what she was looking for: proof. The box was full of newspaper articles and pictures of young girls like her back then. When she found her picture, she dropped the box. Parts of her body in the photo had been lightly scratched, not erased, but deliberately marked. She had never described it to anybody.

“What are you doing here?” Katherine screamed, fear flashing across her face as she stood frozen in her date dress.

“Finding closure,” Cecillia mumbled, still hypnotised by the picture.

“What?”

“You will not harm anybody.”

“What are you saying?” she asked before stepping back as she noticed the knife in the intruder’s hands.

“You are a monster!” Cecillia spat, her voice trembling with rage.

Their eyes found each other. She knew. She knew, even drunk, the psychotherapist managed to put one plus one. She saw the box open on the floor.

“You seem tired, maybe you should drop this,” Katherine tried to negotiate.

But it was too late. Cecillia lunged at her. Facing a drunken opponent, the trained boxer easily dodged. She spun behind Cecillia. It was exactly the same position. Katherine’s paralyzing gaze froze Cecillia just before she locked her in position. Her heart missed a bit. She sent a violent surprising headbutt back, directly on Katherine’s chin. Not much of a heel type, the boxer slammed back into the door with a loud crash.

Cecillia turned to face her, years of bottled rage spilling out as she raised the knife.

“Katherine!” a woman shouted behind her.

The last thing Cecillia saw was Katherine’s mother’s raging eyes. She struck Cecillia once, with something heavy, something deadly.

—–

At dinner, Katherine sat quietly, watching her mother eat. Her mother’s movements were deliberate, unhurried, as if each bite demanded careful thought. Something had been buried that night. Months had passed, and Katherine was finally seeing another specialist. She was making progress, putting pieces together, though some parts of the puzzle remained stubbornly out of reach.

The soup in front of her had grown cold. The memory of that night with Cecillia still lingered in her mind. The strange box, Cecillia’s reaction. There was something there, something important she couldn’t quite grasp. She lost herself in her thoughts. After five steady breaths, she pulled herself back down to Earth.

Across the table, her mother reached for her hand. Her touch was soft, almost a caress, as though meant to comfort her. Katherine flinched, just slightly, and looked up. She was reassured.

Nothing was as calming as a mother’s eyes.