ECHOES OF TRUTH

The sun reigned dominant in the sky.

I watched as a gentle breeze brushed the branches of a tall tree, its leaves falling and then blowing away in the wind. I wished to be like those leaves. Even though there was a window separating me from the outside, I could almost smell nature and feel the wind on my skin. I sighed, resting my chin on my two hands as I continued to stare out the window.

Miss Garnier

The mention of my last name caught my attention, and at that moment I noticed that Professor Taylor was standing next to me, very close to my chair, with her arms crossed over her chest. A perfect high ponytail held her brown hair; she was a very elegant woman. Her hazel eyes were filled with annoyance; she did not look happy. She raised one of her eyebrows and asked:

Do you think that tree is more interesting than my class? -Actually, yes, but I would never say it out loud; I didn't want any trouble.

I apologize, Mrs. Taylor; I did not mean to disrespect you in any way, I replied politely.

Mrs. Taylor returned to her desk, muttering something unwillingly. At first glance, this place looked like an ordinary boarding school, but it wasn't. The Ashwood Institute was an experimental psychiatric hospital that had mostly young patients who suffered from some kind of disorder. The floors were categorized by levels of disorder: from mild, medium to severe.

The patients on the first floor were allowed to attend a few regular, general classes in an attempt to keep us from falling behind academically and to give us the idea that we were normal. It also gave us something to do, something to entertain ourselves with in this lonely, isolated place. I didn't even know such places existed until my grandparents suggested it to me three weeks ago.

Why? Because my parents are gone; they and my younger sister were murdered in cold blood two months ago. I couldn't remember that terrible night; everything was blurry and confusing when I tried to remember. The killer drugged me, making me a useless witness with no memories. Not remembering didn't make it any less painful or any easier to overcome.

A week after that terrible night, my grandparents decided to send me here. I think they were not prepared to deal with me, a young adult of 18 years old diagnosed with PTSD, clinical depression, panic attacks, and suicidal tendencies; they feared for my life. Also, I was sure that I reminded them of my parents; I understood their pain.

Anna- a soft voice whispered behind me. I turned half my body towards her.

I told you my name is 'Anaís,' not Anna- I said to the only friend I had made so far.

But Anna means gracious in Spanish, right? She pronounced Anaís wrong.

Yes, but... -I sighed- Forget it. What do you want?

I need your help... -she ran her fingers through her reddish hair.- With my French. I have a test tomorrow - She put on a sad expression, blinking, trying to convince me.

Émilie hadn't told me the reasons she was here; there was no need. I had noticed her thin figure and the guards at the bathroom door coming in when she came in to watch her. I still remembered how my heart had sunk when I found out she suffered from an eating disorder. She was on a strict regimen of diet, medication, and psychotherapy. The day I arrived, she had just been transferred from the second floor to the first; apparently she was getting better, and that was a start.

“How do you know I speak French?” she asked, curious.

(Anna thought)

French was my mother tongue; I was born in a quiet province in the north of France. My family and I had lived there until my father made some enemies because of his work. He was a lawyer and had sent some criminals to jail, who then decided to take revenge and started threatening him.

So, my father decided it was best for us to move, and we came to Canada, where my grandparents live. Dad bought a beautiful cabin in the mountains, but a few months later, a killer broke in and killed everyone but me. The police ruled out that he was a mercenary; they said he was a serial killer who had already killed four families before mine, and they were struggling to find him. They didn’t know why he had chosen us; they hadn’t figured out his pattern yet. They said I was lucky to survive, but the least I felt was lucky.

Anna? -Émilie's voice brought me out of my thoughts.

I'm sorry, uh... again, how do you know I speak French?

Well, your name is French and your accent; I think it's pretty obvious.

Okay, I'll see what I can do. I'll see you after class - I faked a smile; I had completely forgotten what it felt like to really smile.

(Class)

"Miss Garnier," Mrs. Taylor called. I immediately looked at her. "Can you tell me what the third stage of grief is?"

Negotiation Phase - I answered quickly. I knew she had noticed that I wasn't paying attention, and that's why she asked me.

Good. Well, that's all for today. Have a great day; you may leave - everyone in the classroom began to gather their things -. Miss Garnier, come closer for a moment - I was surprised by her request, so I just nodded, walking to her desk.

Is something wrong, Mrs. Taylor?

No, I have been informed that you did not go to your appointment with the psychologist yesterday, nor to group therapy.

Oh... that.

With all due respect, Mrs. Taylor, I don't think I need it.

I'm afraid that decision is not yours. You've been through a lot, and we need to make sure you're coping and getting better.

I am not crazy.

And that's not what I'm saying. The psychologist and group therapy can help you.

He is unknown, and that group is depressing.

He is an expert in his field of study. Just give him a chance; do it for your family - I really didn't want to keep seeing the psychologist. I didn't like talking about my parents; it was too painful.

I can't.

Anna, I'm not your enemy, but if you keep missing, they'll move you to the second floor where you won't have the freedom you have here, and they'll force you to go to therapy. Do you want that?

“No,” I answered honestly. “Okay, Mrs. Taylor, I’m going to keep my next appointment.”

There was no point in arguing; i won’t be here for my next appointment. <>

"Well, you can go now," she said, looking at me through her glasses.

I left the class and turned right to walk down the long hallway. A crowd of women was invading the place: this part of the school was for women. The men were in the other wing, to prevent us from mixing. It was already difficult enough to have an institution full of young people; imagine, young people recovering from their mental health.

Our uniform consisted of blue cloth pants and a shirt of the same color with a tag on the left side of our chest with our name and patient number. Yeah, our uniform wasn’t sexy or pretty; what can I say? It was a mental hospital. Sometimes, I felt like I was in prison. I held my books to my chest as I made my way to my room. When I got to my door, I walked in and closed it behind me. I rested my body on it and took a few steps until I faced the mirror.

The girl in the reflection looked like a zombie. She had dark circles under her eyes, and her skin lacked any glow or softness. Her blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders; her dark blue eyes stared back at me with such sadness.

> I sighed.

The day had come. I turned on my feet and headed to my bed, sitting up; I just had to wait for the night.