There had been no car crash, no brilliant surgeon father, no mother with the beauty of a movie star.
She had no brother.
This was where she came from. This basement, these medications, treatments, hypnotic sessions, surgeries.
Can’t be, can’t be, can’t be: The words were a wishful train chugging in her ears. Can’t be, can’t be.
But it was.
And hadn’t some part of her known all along? Hadn’t some part of her been preparing?
Vi was down on the ground on her knees, and Iris was shaking her shoulders. “Vi! Violet! Wake up, Violet!”
But Violet Hildreth was a made-up name. A character.
Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?
She opened her eyes, and they were no longer Violet Hildreth’s eyes.
She stood up on shaky legs and walked to the file cabinet.
“Vi?” Iris said. “Talk to me, Vi.”
She began to pull the files out, not even looking at the contents through her tear-filled eyes, just throwing the papers all over the floor.
I am Patient S.
And she felt it in her chest, blooming, the words sure and strong: I am a monster.
This she knew how to be.
The pages were scattered around the room now like a strange fallen snow. She tipped over the heavy metal cabinet, letting the scream that had been building inside her out at last.
She’d give them a monster.
She’d give them the worst monster the world had ever seen.
And wouldn’t Gran be sorry then?
She’d make Gran sorry.
Sorry for everything she’d done.
Vi picked up the wooden chair and smashed it against the wall, breaking its back and legs. She was amazed by her own strength, by the power and fury flowing inside her, lighting her up, making her crackle and glow.
THIS is who I am, who I am, who I am!
“Vi!” Iris was calling, “Violet, stop!” but her voice sounded far off, a voice at the end of a long dark tunnel.
Vi felt a hand on her shoulder, gentle at first, then firm, turning her.
But it wasn’t her shoulder anymore. It was the shoulder of a girl named Vi, a paper-doll girl who no longer existed.
“It’s okay,” Iris said, pulling Vi closer. “Shh, it’s going to be okay. Please talk to me, Vi.”
Iris petted at Vi’s hair, touched Vi’s face, looked at her with such love, but also a trace of pity. It was an I’m so sorry look. Iris was crying, tears running down her pale face.
The girl named Vi—what was left of her—loved Iris, loved her so much her chest ached and she could hardly catch her breath.
But the monster was full of hate and scorn and fury.
And the monster was stronger.
The monster was winning.
“Let go of me,” she ordered.
“No,” Iris said. “Vi, I—”
“Let me go!” she roared, but Iris held tight.
The monster reeled back, making a fist with her right hand, swinging her arm through the air. It seemed to happen in slow motion, and what caught Vi most off guard was not her strength, but Iris’s expression of pure bewilderment and disbelief.
Vi’s fist made contact with Iris’s temple, and Iris went down, sprawling backward, hitting the back of her head on the edge of the desk with a sickening crack. She crumpled to the floor on top of the scattered notes.