Wait a moment.I sat in a chair and tapped my fingers on the hard plastic armrests.The receptionist lady tapped her ergonomic keyboard, making a soft and regular clicking sound.Our voices were so incongruous.Seeing her frown, I knew I had managed to annoy her, the sound was like scratching a blackboard with my fingernails. very good. Silent protest is the only complaint I can make about waiting.This is my prerogative.It means that I have stepped up another step on Dr. Peterson's "ladder of trust".It's just that this ladder is high into the clouds, and I'm still at the bottom.Besides, I had no intention of climbing to the top.There are benefits to such a small climb, however.First of all, I can wear my own clothes, my hands are free, and I can continue to torture that haughty secretary with inconspicuous little tricks.I smiled calmly at her and tapped the armrest more loudly.

The door opened.The lady receptionist and I looked at the rectangular space together, but no one came out of the door.Through the doorway, all I could see were cream-coloured walls hung with certificates and a deep red plush carpet.I didn't see anything, but the receptionist lady got a hint. "Dr. Peterson can see you now." Her voice was sweet and annoying to hear.Professional, courteous, and very dismissive in tone.I got up from my seat without even looking at her.My rubber-soled espadrilles—with my own shoes, at least six more flights of stairs—slipped on the cheap wooden floor.It's just that the guard who went in with me was out of step with me, and the guy made a rattling sound to indicate my presence; his footsteps were enough to let Dr. Peterson know I was coming.Enough to make him look up and say hello to me.

But he didn't. "How are you, Heather?" he asked a piece of paper in front of him. It didn't answer.After at least eight seconds of silence, he finally looked up at me. "Huh?" He raised his eyebrows, showing a frank and amiable expression.As if we were friends.It's a buddy. Unfortunately we are not. I met his gaze as I sat in the plush leather chair across from his desk.At last, this room is no longer filled with ugly, cookie-cutter plastic chairs.He turned his eyes away first, and I watched him slowly flip through the documents on the desk, tapped the silver engraved pen a few times, and straightened his tie and shirt. Seeing this, I allowed myself to be a little proud.Then he cleared his throat and glared at me.

Now, we really start the game. "Heather, are you ready to talk today?" with you?No. He read my thoughts from my expression and sighed.He leaned forward, leaned against the desk, put down his pen, and folded his fingers into a steeple shape.Spotlights embedded in the ceiling cast a soft yellow light, illuminating the signet ring on his right pinky finger.I couldn't see what was etched on the round ring, just an etching that had faded with age.Like the wrinkles around his eyes.Those nasty lines at the corners of his mouth were also puckered up in disgust—a look he made every time he looked at me.It seems we both really dislike seeing each other.

"You know, I'm going to prepare a report for the court." I raised an eyebrow contemptuously.Yeah? "The judge needs to know your current progress and mental state. Heather, I cannot issue a report without your cooperation." Writing down these words of his definitely shows that he is empathetic, and they are words spoken by a doctor who cares about the well-being of patients.When the lady receptionist outside transcribes the words - I know everything I say will be recorded, even if I can't see the recording equipment - I'm sure it is.Only I can hear the sharp threat in it.

I have the right to send you to a place where there are no strapped beds but windows with iron bars.That's what he means.Be kind and open up to me and let me into your heart so you can climb the ladder and there will come a day when the blue sky and the hot sun will be the only two things above your head. One thing Dr. Peterson didn't understand was that I was a danger.Whether it's here or in prison, even when I'm free, I'm a threat.It doesn't matter where it is, the key is my destructive power.This secret carried far more weight than his bureaucratic threats, and because of it, the puppet show turned into a burlesque sideshow.

He just doesn't get it.Then why should I obediently play games with him? From my eyes and frown, he clearly saw my thoughts.He backed off for the time being, and began to flip through a stack of documents related to me. There were reports and medical records in it. Anyway, they were all kinds of accurate information. Then he looked at some things carefully, just to let this A moment passed quickly.I kept silent, which made him feel very uncomfortable.Suddenly, his eyes lit up.In response, I squinted my eyes a slit.What did he find? "This is a discharge form." He said, waving a piece of blue paper twice.Before I could read it, he put the paper with the other documents.Discharge form?Now, he piqued my interest.I can't even hide this.He won the second round.Look at how smug he is. "I must sign a guarantee that you are now in a stable condition and can be temporarily discharged from the hospital to perform surgery on your right hand..."

my right hand.I looked down at the left hand I had tucked between my legs; it turned out that I had been subconsciously blocking the right with my good left.I can't see my left hand, but I can still feel it: the crumpled stitches, the rough, uneven scar.I shifted slowly, gently placing both hands on one knee, watching the difference. Left hand: Pale skin, slender fingers, no nail polish, no long nails, but the longest they allowed me to keep.Nails can be weapons, after all.I have literally used my nails as a weapon when given the chance. Right hand: exposed red flesh, deformed, some nails are missing, some are twisted.It is not so much a human hand as it is a claw.ugly.weird.

I felt tears fill my eyes, but I couldn't stop them.my hand.Peterson was still talking, but I couldn't hear him. "Heather? Heather, are you listening?" I didn't listen. "If you want me to sign this form, show me that you can communicate. Prove that you're sane enough to get out of here and get surgery. You have to talk to me today. That's important." He held up another One document.The document was thick, with several pages, held together with staples. "We're going to turn over everything you said to the police. Everything you said." He paused, as if waiting for me to let him go. "Your words, Heather. Not a word Report it to the police. Now let's start from the beginning."

from scratch? I held my right hand and recalled the scene at that time.I close my eyes and imagine that I am not here, but with my friends, speeding down the highway.I can still seem to hear the song playing on the stereo.