Prologue
~Kyla~
The room smelled like cheap disinfectant — the kind that crawls up your nose and leaves a metallic taste in your throat.
Like a hospital, but without the background chaos.
Sterile.
Like someone had sealed the air on purpose.
I sat in the same hard chair as always. It was my last session here, and I couldn’t have been more relieved.
So I did what I always did:
Back straight.
Hands on my thighs.
On the outside: calm.
On the inside: calculating.
He was there, like the last four sessions. The textbook therapist type — the kind who looked like he wanted to run but had too much pride to admit it.
I looked at him. I didn’t blink.
I never blink first.
He adjusted his glasses with trembling fingers. He pretended to be confident, but the small details betrayed him: the soft tap of his nail against the desk, the tension along his jaw.
I saw everything.
— Good morning, Kyla. How are you feeling today?
He tried sounding friendly. On the last word, his voice cracked.
I didn’t answer. I waited.
He swallowed. Once. Twice.
— Very well, thank you.
Soft.
Controlled.
Almost a whisper.
Not a secret — but it worked like one.
I never gave more than I wanted.
He knew that.
His fingers laced together on the desk.
— Have you thought about your father lately?
There it was.
After five sessions of talking around it — the magic word. Father.
They all thought that was the key.
That I’d crack open just because they said it.
I tilted my head slightly, just enough to notice his gaze slide toward the door — his body measuring the escape route.
— Why should I?
He recoiled. Literally. Leaned back. Searched for air he suddenly didn’t have.
Retreat.
Instinctive.
Kyla: two. Therapist: zero.
I didn’t smile.
Inside, I did.
— W-well, Kyla… I think it’s important we talk about your feelings toward your father… and how you deal with them—
Piece by piece, I was dismantling him.
— Y-you’re going to be released soon, and that worries me a b-bit—
I lifted one corner of my mouth. Not a smile. A warning.
— I don’t think that’s necessary.
Short. Flat. Like an order.
And he understood.
He glanced at the wall.
Then the clock.
Then gave up.
— Yes… I think we’re done for today. S-see you soon.
God, I hoped not.
Another win for the very young Kyla Die Green.
I stood slowly, stretching his discomfort to the last possible second. On my way out, I checked the clock.
Two minutes.
Another record.
Later I found out he hadn’t asked for a transfer simply because it was my last session.
Needs someone with more experience and long-term follow-up.
Almost identical to every report before him.
I remembered all of them.
Some never met my eyes.
Others thought they could handle everything.
They all ended the same.
To them, I was a problem to fix.
To me, every session was a match. A game.
And I don’t lose.
Ever.
My name spread through the corridors faster than I liked.
Some whispered it in fear.
Others in morbid curiosity.
None of them understood.
I wasn’t a victim.
I wasn’t a monster.
I just learned how to survive in a world that doesn’t forgive the weak.
That’s what I repeated to myself the next morning as I stared at my bruised knuckles by the open doors of the center — two hours of sleep, and my Yamaha waiting for me like the only thing in this world that still made sense.
