Epilogue

The professional tone of the young adult's psychiartrist echoes. Her hooded eyes scan the room. The bedroom. What was supposed to be a sanctuary was just a reminder. A reminder that she was still alive and would wake up in the same place every, single, day. 

Change was needed. But change was too scary, too hard, too risky. The young adult saunters cautiously around the room. Cautiously being the keyword. You are too careful. You are just existing. 

But things were worse and could, at any moment without her knowing become worse again. So maybe being careful was her only choice. 

Her eyes caught on an object, an old friend. Her doctor's voice repeating, 'bring something to me next session, something that helped you get better'. She was far from better, but was a little further from worse. 

Her fingers tightened around the object, and her scars tingled. The ghostly pain she inflicted on herself months ago taunted her but she