THE BIRDSONG announced that yet another morning had dawned. Yet another long day to go through. 

Mirela lifted her head, wincing at the crick in her neck. She had fallen asleep at her desk, on top of the charcoal sketch she had worked on till late last night. The art was ruined - the charcoal dust that coated her face and palms was smudged all over the page. The artwork wouldn't even pass for dark surrealism, she preordained, crumpling up the paper and chucking it into the bin. She stood, stretching until her joints popped, and then went to her bathroom to brush and wash up. Seeing as she still had a while, she decided to rest properly in her bed this time. She didn't sleep though, just peacefully bore witness to the dappled fire in the sky extinguish to a cool, daytime blue.

Minutes later, there came the sound of a deadbolt sliding and her quarters' door swung open. It was an orderly with a fresh set of clothes. Two janitors followed after and got straight to work. The orderly kept the bundle on one of the wall-shelves next to the desk and went to supervise the cleaning. Mirela sat upright, swinging her legs down and slipping on her sneakers. As she tied her shoelaces, she caught a pair of black velvet pumps walk in on her peripheral vision. Warily, she looked up and her sight was met with a pleasant faced woman.

"Hi, you must be Mirela. I'm Dr Amalie Strinholm. I've been assigned your case." Her voice was just as pleasant as her appearance.

"Hello," Mirela said slowly, "what happened to Dr Svensson?"

"Hmm. I'm not aware... I just know that he filed for a reassignment and I got it," the woman replied. She pulled the chair back from the desk and settled down. The scattered papers and the drawings taped to the wall above it caught her attention. "Ah... I see that you're an artist."

Mirela shrugged.

Setting down the notebook she'd been carrying on her lap, Strinholm picked up one of the drawing pads. "May I?"

"Sure," Mirela consented.

"Wow, you're really good--" she held up a sketch of a tree "-- incredible details..." And she continued flipping through the pages, occasionally complimenting something about a drawing. When she was done, she took to studying the artwork that adorned the wall.

Mirela wondered what she was up to. Svensson never focused on her art so much - or on anything outside of that wretched file about her. But this Doctor seemed to be really invested. However, it was soon time for breakfast, as announced by the resounding gong of a bell. 

The sound surprised Strinholm. She checked her watch, tsk-ing as she gathered her notebook and got up. "I had hoped to talk about a few things before breakfast, but thirty minutes really fly by, huh?" When Mirela didn't say anything, she resumed, "well, I suppose we have the whole day to get acquainted. Would you come to the common room after you've eaten?"

Dread had filled the pit of her stomach, but Mirela composed herself and nodded. She didn't like this at all. She was not looking forward to recounting every miserable thing in her past. All those memories hit like hard winds blowing when she's lost at sea and drowning. It was going to be yet another long, hard day to go through. 

After finishing her two pancakes and a bowl of diced fruits, Mirela paced the patio outside the dining hall - deliberating over her two options. She could either go to the common room as she'd promised, or she could say she felt ill and be excused to return to her chambers. The more she thought, the more she didn't like what her decision was turning out to be. She could only avoid the new Doctor for so long, before she eventually had to cede. And her escapism would just become another reason for people to pin down as proof of her 'problematic behavior'. Best to get this done and over with. Fists clenched, nails digging into her palms, she slowly picked the long route to the common room.

Doctor Amalie Strinholm would ask something along the lines of: why do you think you're here?

Because I have PTSD, manic depression, and who knows what other psycho-neurotic disorders. I may have tried to kill one of my foster parents.

Then somehow, twisting and turning, Strinholm would ask more specific questions alongside promises of a safe space, free from judgement. She'd have to start at the very beginning, back from the day it all went to hell. She'd have to talk about witnessing her mother's murder.

Maybe if she prepared herself for it, it wouldn't be so bad, Mirela told herself. And so, as the double doors to the common room loomed ahead, she waded out to sea. Before she knew it, the water pulled her under, closing in from all sides - tenebrous and merciless. There was no air, only the crushing weight of the frozen sea. She fought against it to no avail, she fought for a breath. There was no air.

Just when she thought she was dead, she felt hands around her wrists. The fire in her lungs only grew, however. Her palms tingled, so did her face, the back of her neck, the soles of her feet... and from some hazy fever dream, drifted a voice. "Breathe," it said, "in through your nose, out of your mouth. You're okay."

But I'm not.

"Breathe!" it repeated, commanding now. Mirela obeyed. She inhaled until her chest filled, cool air subduing the burning, then exhaled until finally the sea let up. Though the echoes of the day Zarina Diaconu had died, they were not so forgiving. They hit like hard winds blowing when she's lost at sea, still drowning. They were sharp and cold. So cold.

"I need you to open your eyes and look at me." It was the voice from the dream again. Soft, coaxing. "Just keep breathing. In and out."

Mirela tried. She wanted to scream, I'm trying. I'm trying. I'm trying!

"I know you are. And you're doing great. Here, can you feel my hands?"

She did feel warmth enclose her fists, prying her fingers open. "Yes," she choked.

"Good. Hold tight. Listen to me. You are in the common room of St. Frances Institute..." The voice was stronger, getting clearer. "It's a beautiful day. The sun is out. The sky is azure. Now, open your eyes so you can come to the window and see..."

Fingers laced with hers, squeezing gently, drawing her out of the stormy sea and strong winds, and into solace. The murky waters cleared off her vision - a face sharpened into focus. It was a boy. 

"See?" He smiled ever so sincerely. "You're fine. You're okay."

And Mirela couldn't help but believe him. She was fine. She was okay.

He loosened his grip, reminding her of their still intertwined fingers. She withdrew her hands. An orderly stepped in with a shawl and a glass of water. As she drank, she observed the boy. He matched her gaze. Taking in his white t-shirt, white cotton slacks, and white sneakers, Mirela realized that he was an inmate like her. But she'd never seen him before.

Another orderly led Strinholm into the room. She immediately knelt beside Mirela, brows furrowed, sprightly eyes dampened with genuine concern. "What happened?"

"She had a panic attack," the boy answered.

"Oh, dear!" The woman signaled the orderlies to help Mirela stand. To her, she questioned, "how are you feeling?"

Mirela pulled the shawl tighter around herself. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure? We can initiate you to group therapy tomorrow if you're not up to it right now..."

"I'm sure." She'd rather not be by herself in case she had another attack. "I'd like to stay for group therapy, please."

Strinholm looked relieved. "Alright, good. Thank you for being so receptive. Come this way."

She led them to the center of the room where an assortment of chairs were arranged in a circle. Mirela sat down on the nearest one, noticing that the boy had followed and sat next to her. His legs looked comically long as he stretched them out and crossed his ankles.

Setting her notebook on a chair, Strinholm then turned to Mirela. "Thank you, again, for doing this. You don't have to share or interact if you don't want to. You do it whenever you're ready."

"Okay." It was nice to have a choice for once. 

"But I will introduce you to everyone... some familiarizing will make the other members comfortable, considering that you're new to the circle. So the spotlight will be on you momentarily--I hope that's fine."

Inclining her head in affirmation, Mirela pulled her feet up, setting her chin atop one knee. Something about the Doctor put her mind at ease. 

Maybe it was how undemanding she was. Or maybe it was how she was the opposite of Doctor Svensson in nearly every aspect, Mirela ruminated, watching the woman greet all the in-house and the visiting patients - she welcomed them warmly, with candid joy. It felt almost unprofessional... or maybe it felt that way because she was only used to Svensson's discourteous and condescending manners. Maybe - maybe she was staring too much now. It was becoming rude.

Turning away, Mirela faced her side where the boy was. As if sensing her, he looked right at her and raised his eyebrows. Inexplicable embarrassment creeped into her; she shrugged and broke eye contact, choosing to stare out of the bay windows instead. 

He was right, that boy; it really was a beautiful day. And the sky was atypically cloudless - azure, like he'd said.

❖

author's note:

have you ever noticed how depressive episodes become bastions for writer's block?

yeah, i couldn't write anything new for over a year. so then i thought that rewriting a story that i'd invested the most time and brains in, that i'd planned the best, would help somehow. but it didn't and i haven't even finished that. and this one chapter is new but it's probably my worst work. everything feels so discordant and stiff, and the interactions and dialogues feel so awkward and out of place... i dont' know. but i'm hoping you'll find something nice here.

thank you for all your patience.