I find myself in the last place I want to be. The counseling center's waiting room feels more claustrophobic than ever before. I clutch my phone in my lap, avoiding eye contact with my mom who sits two seats away from me. Sorrow permeates her gaze these days, but she gives me my space. On Sunday morning, she even tried baking me blueberry muffins and cornbread to accompany her chili. I lived on protein bars, applesauce, popcorn, and whatever else I could find inhabiting our pantry.

Do I feel kind of bad for ignoring Mom like this? I don't know yet. She betrayed my trust in an irreconcilable way. The path forward with her is shrouded by overgrown vines of anxiety and fear. But I know that somehow, some way, we'll have to figure out a way forward.

Amber pops her head around the corner. I stand, clutching only my phone. I didn't come from school — I don't have school for another week. Thank goodness the school agreed to give me some extra time off. For what I foresee will be the last time, I enter the counseling room, surrounded by a scent of lavender and sink into the green chair.

"So, what's been going on?" Amber asks. "How have you been dealing this past week?"

I stare her down. I'm not even going to go into the most recent event of catching the people who tried to frame me. "What memory did you send into dormancy in my mind?"

Amber blinks at me, startled. "What do you mean?"

"I know about your enhanced sense, the sixth sense in your brain that enables you to sense and manipulate other people's memories. I know that you did that to me when I was a kid. Can you return the memory to me?"

Amber takes a sip of water. Her eyes are stable, holding my gaze. They don't dart around like a caged animal, she remains stoic, like she's calculating her next move.

It's deeply unsettling.

"Are you sure you want the memory returned?" she asks. "All these years..."

"All these years I've been dealing with repressed trauma. I don't think I can manage my anxiety without tackling the emotional baggage brought with the memory."

After a moment, Amber nods. "I'll return it to your memory. Do... do you want me to return any other memories you're missing?"

"You've done this to me before?" I shouldn't be surprised. Yet I feel like something is missing, like something was taken from me.

"Only two other times. Both were instances where I was convinced the memory wouldn't be missed or leave unexplainable gaps. The problem with removing memories is that it can sometimes leave ripples if another person was involved in the memory and brings it up again in the future. Memories can only be removed with the utmost care to avoid psychological ripples, or worse."

"Worse?"

"Psychotic meltdowns, confusion and memory mixup, other unpleasant side effects." Amber raises an eyebrow. "Still want the memory returned?"

I swallow and nod. Amber leans forward, pacing a hand on my shoulder. She stares deep into my eyes for several minutes, her eyes unblinking. Her lips move occasionally, but most of the time, her face remains frozen in concentration.

Slowly, events filter through my mind's eyes. I find myself spinning, spinning away from this room, into the darkness...

My room is dark. Only the pale light of the moon shines through my window. I shiver as heat dances on the fridges of my arms, singing just my baby hairs, close enough to feel but not quite close enough to consume me.

I grip my comforter tighter around me, pulling it up to my neck. Fear spikes my heart rate, and tears well in my eyes. There's someone close by, I can feel it. Are they in my room?

No, they couldn't be. Their presence would be stronger, right?

They could be about to enter my room, though.

My eyes land on the open window. A fresh wave of terror crashes through me. Someone could come in through the window. Someone might be standing underneath, about to climb into my bedroom and hurt me. I whimper, clutching the comforter tighter.

"Mom," I whisper.

She can't hear me, no one can. If I scream, it will only alert whoever lurks below.

This is the fifth night in a row this has happened.

Warmth creeps up my arms, slow but steady, a disease overtaking my skin. I need to do something, to stop this. But what can I do? How?

If I can just see who lurks below, I can have the advantage.

I slide from beneath my covers. My toes find the carpet, and I cross over the room to the window. Crickets hum and a sweet, cool breeze washes through my room. It does little to calm my erratic heart beat.

My eyes land on my bookcase full of hardback fantasy novels. In a pinch, maybe I can drop one on the head of whoever is below. My fingers clasp the crisp edges of the thickest book on the shelf. I need two hands to lift it and lug it over to the window sill.

I look out at a flash of movement in the window across the way. A large tree grows, it's twisted branches reaching from our side to the house next door.

A man stands by the open window just as a gold candlestick smacks his head, denting in his skull. He crumples to the ground while my neighbor, Mrs. Barnes, stands over him. Her gaze lands on me, lingering for several seconds.

I gasp and drop into a crouch. Quiet sobs escape my throat.

She saw me. I dare a peek over the window sill, at the monster living next door. Mrs. Barnes still stands by the window, candlestick base gripped in one hand while the top is sitting on her other open palm. Her face is expressionless.

Then, without so much a micro-muscle twitch in her expression, she sets the candlestick upright on the desk. She leaves the room, and I duck down again.

The minutes tick by. I shudder in fear. I want Mom and Dad, but I'm too scared to leave. Where did Mrs. Barnes go?

My answer finally comes in the form of chimes singing a haunting melody through the house. That's when I finally scream.

Tears flood my eyes despite myself. All the terror, the fear, the anxiety comes rushing back all at once. Another memory surfaces with the memory of my reading the forged text messages with Will on the dating app. That explains why I felt deja vu when I read them, and why Amber was so adamant I delete the thing.

I grab a tissue and angrily swipe the tears aside. I don't want to show Amber this vulnerable side of myself. Yet I'm still here in her office for the last time.

"What bothers you most about the memory?" Amber prods gently. Despite myself, her soothing voice eases part of my muscles, though the rest tighten with apprehension.

"It was seeing an average person, someone I saw every day, commit such a terrible act," I say. "She seemed so normal on the outside, yet she committed an atrocity. It made me realize that I am capable of doing the same, we all are. In fact, I almost killed someone that night because I was so terrified and grabbed a book off my bookshelf." I sniffle, wiping my eyes again. "Really, I'm no better or different than she is."

"But there's a difference between knowingly committing a murder and self-defense. Any actions you would be taking would be acts of self-defense."

I look down at my shaking hands. "It doesn't matter. I don't want to hurt anyone. But I also don't want anyone to hurt me, either. That day at the window though, it made me realize that anyone, even someone benign can commit murder. Anyone can pose a threat, including myself."

Amber nods solemnly. There's a pause, filled with lavender bubbles bubbling inside the diffuser. "I don't know what your plans are going forward regarding therapy, but I think a good angle to start exploring is learning to trust your own motivations."

I shift in my chair. It is true that I never meant any of the boys who I thought I killed harm. In Isaac's situation, I didn't even feel that threatened. It was the power of suggestion and my own overactive mind that pushed me over the edge.

"I don't plan to continue," I say. "At least... maybe not here." I cringe as the words leave my mouth. Even after all the secrets, I still don't want to hurt her. She has been a support to me for many years. She thought she was doing what was best for me, even if it has stymied my emotional healing for over a decade.

Her actions are nuanced, not all good, not all bad. It's impossible to categorize her as friend or foe at the moment, and maybe that's not a bad thing or indecision. Maybe it's just... life. I can't always judge a person or situation perfectly every time, and holding myself to such a standard is unrealistic.

"I can recommend some other centers if you would like." she smiles, though her eyes glimmer. She flicks a strand of hair from her pale face.

"But I will think about what you said," I say. "About trusting my own motivations. Regaining control of the things I do, and not obsessing over what I am capable of doing."

"That's good."

My mind circles back to my mom. If Amber was doing what was best for me, wasn't the same for my mom?

"I don't really know what to think about my mom's actions."

"Actions? As in seeking me out to remove your memory?'

"No." I tell her about the cover-up, about Mom framing an innocent woman for her husband's murder. Amber listens, conceivably for the last time, as I bear my deepest thoughts about the subject to her. "I just can't believe she would ruin another person's life like that. It seems so cruel to send an innocent person to prison and to break up an already fractured family."

Amber nods. "It does seem very cruel. But is it possible to forgive her for what she did? She made a big error to protect you, which is not to make you feel guilty by any means. But her intentions were protective in nature, not sinister for the sake of it."

"It's just that I've misjudged her all these years. It's like I've been living with a murderer's assistant."

"But is it realistic to know everything your mom does?"

I shake my head after a moment. Just like I may mistake a benign person as a threat, I may mistake a threat for the benign. That fills me with an unspeakable amount of fear. Who could be lurking at the fringes of my life, ready to wreak havoc the moment I let my guard down?

But I cannot go the rest of my life mistrusting everyone I meet. At some point, I have to choose who I will trust through watching their character through time. Mom has done so much for me, even quit her job and gave up opportunities to speak about what she's passionate about for me. She bakes to cheer me up and tries to ease my anxiety any way that she can.

Mom cares for me. And it was her love and dedication to me that led her to make such a horrible mistake.

No one is perfect. I am not perfect. I can not judge every situation perfectly.

Mom is not a menace or a threat to society. But her mother-bear instincts led her to make a terrible choice that has far-reaching consequences on all of us. I may have misjudged her for living by the books one-hundred percent of the time, but that doesn't mean that she can't amend her mistakes. That doesn't mean that I can't forgive.

"No," I say at last. "It is not realistic. I have to use what I know about her — that she loves me, that I see her sacrificing herself for me every day — to make sense of the situation. I hope one day we can repair the trust that was broken between us."

***

The opportunity to repair that trust comes sooner than comfortable, though I had anticipated it. Mom sits in the waiting room, glancing up from her phone when I enter. She smiles, though she hangs back in her seat, more reserved than usual. She doesn't know how to act around me.

I walk up to her and, taking a deep breath, place my hand on her arm and gently tug her toward the door. Her hand hovers over my shoulder before it finally rests there. Tears leak from her eyes.

"Can we grab coffee?" I ask.

"Of course," Mom says. She sniffles, turning her face skyward as she inhales, trying not to cry.

Just like old times. Yet nothing is the same, and never will be. Perhaps this can be the start to repairing the understanding between us, building something new based off the old.