I don’t remember much. Those drugs they fed me had a way of messing with my memory. I remember my father on the floor, covered in blood. The surprised look on his face, the flash of tears in his eyes.

I never saw him again. I got one last visit from my mother, though. She was furious, wanted to know if I would tell the nurse what had happened. She threatened me with her words. But what she didn’t know was that her words no longer had any effect on me. I let them fall to the floor around me, harmless as air.

That was the day I began to plan. For my plan to work, they had to release me. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to convince the doctors I wasn’t the “sick little girl” they thought. Ironically, I would have to become a pathological liar. I had to say what they wanted to hear.

8 years after my imprisonment, they set me free. They helped me find a job as a receptionist and get an apartment.

When I got my first paycheck, the first thing I bought was a gun. Then I went back to the place where it all started.