‘What happened, Sara?’
The counsellor’s office was both cosy and anonymous at the same time. Posters of boy bands adorned the walls, soft toys spilled out of a chest in the corner and a foot-tall Buddha statue smiled benignly from the edge of the desk. The room resembled the love-child of an office and a girl’s bedroom, a simulacrum of intimate personal space relatable to all. Boxes of tissues sat on every table.
The counsellor’s face was the subject of much derisive conversation over the lunch tables of the school, but in truth few girls left her office dry-eyed. That face was perfectly created as a catalyst for tears: eyes perpetually brimful of pity, mouth trembling in anticipation, voice quavering with infinite understanding.
They had surrounded Sara in one of the school hallways an hour earlier. The corridor was a noisy river of children, whose chatter ricocheted around the enclosed space, causing kids to raise their voices to be heard, which echoed even more loudly around them, creating a loop that kept ratcheting up the volume.
There were three of them: one alpha and two others. No one noticed when they yanked Sara out of the stream into a recessed area near a water fountain.
‘She wants to see your lunch money,’ said one of the beta girls, nodding to the alpha, who was a head and shoulders taller than the others.
Sara crossed her arms protectively, hugging her satchel to her chest.
The alpha’s arm whipsawed outwards, like a cobra striking, smacking into Sara’s bag and gripping the strap.
Sara didn’t know what made one of the beta girls gasp. And then she looked down and found one of her own arms was extended, the fist embedded in the armpit of the alpha, the other hand holding on to the alpha’s hand, two fingers circling the wrist.
The alpha looked at her, face darkening with anger, other arm rising.
Sara watched the scene play out as if she was an observer to it, like it was someone else’s hand gripping the girl’s hand, and then someone else’s arms push-pulling with a single pump, dislocating the girl’s shoulder with a sickening pop.
A pregnant pause, and then a scream that mingled pain, outrage and self-pity in equal measure layered itself on to the deafening chorus around them.
‘Is there someone you are angry with, Sara?’ asked the counsellor, her voice as soft as a feather bed. ‘It’s OK to be angry.’
Sara didn’t feel angry. The only emotion she felt, which accompanied her throughout each day like a shadow, was a sense of amputation. It was like she was missing a limb. Or like she was a child from a children’s story, kidnapped from the royal family and raised as a pauper, who cannot explain the yearning she feels when she stares up at the palace walls. This was not the life she was meant to be leading. Some essential part of her had been taken, and the person left behind was strange, with a nature she could not understand.
‘We can talk about things here, Sara,’ continued the counsellor. ‘This is a safe place. No judgements. I know about your special background. Talking about it is the best way to heal.’
But Sara didn’t want to talk about it. How can you tell someone that you only have four years of memory to rely on? She was an infant housed in a teenager’s body. How can you tell someone you just met that you know they live in a small flat with a salmon-coloured carpet, alone other than a Siamese cat who shares each evening meal with her? Sara doesn’t know if these thoughts are real or not, but has learned the best way to avoid trouble is to keep her mouth shut.
‘Well, are you going to say anything, Sara?’ A note of disappointment crept into the counsellor’s voice.
After a period of silence, the counsellor sat back in her seat, a look of despondency on her face.