Wickedly Yours

Part 33

Diary of a Lost Girl Entry.. Unknown

Christmas came and went. I barely remember the details, as if the whole day was wrapped in fog. It was all noise—my father bustling around, trying to fill the silence I left in my wake, hoping that his holiday cheer might somehow seep into me. But I wasn't there. I sat at the table, fork in hand, watching everything like a spectator to a life that isn't mine anymore.

The food was tasteless, the lights too bright, and the tree—a garish reminder of a world where people pretend things like this are supposed to mean something. I didn't say much, didn't have to. My silence has become its own language in this apartment.

And then his birthday came. I couldn't eat. Not a crumb. My father pleaded, hovering over me like I was some child he could coax with sweet words and desperate promises. But what could he promise me that would make any of this better?

He doesn't understand that the hunger, the emptiness, is mine to hold. It's the only thing I can control. I didn't tell him that. I couldn't. So I let him beg, watched him falter, listened as his voice cracked. But I didn't move. I couldn't.

My body, my mind, my heart—none of them obey me anymore. So I let the day pass. The food went cold, and I stayed in my bed, wrapped in the kind of emptiness that suffocates.

The psychologist he arranged for me—Dr. Owens—is kind, I suppose. He has this gentle way about him, like he's been trained to look concerned but not too concerned, to listen but never push too hard. He doesn't know what to make of me, I can tell. He looks at me like I'm some puzzle he can't solve. Maybe I'm not meant to be solved. Maybe that's the point.

Every session feels the same. He asks me how I'm doing, how I'm sleeping. I lie. He asks about Severus, about my father, about my mother's half-hearted attempts to connect. I give him what he wants—a few rehearsed lines, enough to fill the hour. But he's not helping. Maybe no one can.

There's this growing sense that I'm too far gone, that nothing anyone says or does will reach me. I watch him, sometimes, as he scribbles down notes, and I wonder if he's diagnosing me with something—something worse than what I already know. I wonder if he's writing me off, preparing himself for the inevitable.

He tries to be hopeful, says things like "We can work through this," or "This is just a phase," but I don't believe him. He can't fix me. I'm not something that can be fixed.

Every day at 10, I'm supposed to be up, as if getting out of bed will magically solve everything. My father's rules. He says it'll help, insists that routine will keep me from "spiraling." But I've already spiraled. It's over.

The fall has already happened. I wake up and drag myself to the bathroom, splash water on my face, but I don't look in the mirror anymore. I can't. The person staring back isn't me. She's pale, gaunt, hollow. Her eyes are sunken, dead. It's like looking at a ghost, a version of myself that doesn't exist.

I put on clothes, the same ones most days, because who am I trying to impress? My father? Dr. Owens? They don't care what I look like. I could be naked and it wouldn't change anything. I can't even make myself look presentable anymore. It's like I've forgotten how.

I look like one of those women in the old films, the ones locked away in asylums, their hair matted, eyes wild, pacing back and forth in their cages. Except I'm not in an asylum.

No, I'm in my father's Manhattan apartment, surrounded by art, fine furniture, all the trappings of wealth and comfort, and yet... I'm caged. Trapped in a world that feels more like a prison every day.