Flashback

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Emanuele is lying on her old, musty bed. The peeling, unplastered walls smell like wet bricks; the broken glass window is partially closed, as usual. The day is cloudy and dull, like all the others. The girl looks at the door to her own room.

The little redhead never had privacy for anything. Ever since she was a child she was told by her mother that nothing she had, from the clothes on her body to the (disgusting) food on her plate, belonged to her. Until she was fifteen, Emanuele thought this behavior was normal. Until a lecturer from another city came to her school, and explained to the students several issues about mental health.

That day was crucial for her to understand that, deep down, she was right. And that her mother was not a normal mother; she was not like the others.

Since the age of fifteen, Emanuele had studied various scientific articles and school documents, as well as books by health professionals and psychologists. It didn