Hannah's Therapy
by Seldom (seldomlasts@yahoo.com)
The healing of a violent killer.


***** AUTHOR'S NOTE *****

When I wrote Hannah, it was a one-shot story. I hadn't planned on writing about
her any more. But she's been gnawing at my mind, begging for another chance.

The beginning of this story won't make sense if you haven't read Hannah. Maybe
it's more fun that way? I don't know.

* * * * *

The room's nice. A little small, but well-lit. I can see trees and the sun
through the bars. I guess I'd get lonely if it weren't for Steve.

I've just finished a hundred one-handed handstand push-ups. It took me a long
time to learn how to do those. Of course, now all I've got is time. Time to
think or time to exercise, and thinking these days is hard, painful. I don't
like it. So I've worked on perfecting my body. I have nearly ten hours a day to
just strain against myself and the concrete walls. They're called isometrics. I
found that out in a book on exercising. They're neat. I've learned all kinds of
ways to make myself bigger and harder and stronger without weights or machines.

"You look magnificent," Steve says with a smile, eyeing my arms, shoulders, and
pecs.

I blush. "Thank you." I'd go hug him, but he's not really there. That's one of
those confusing thoughts. I don't like it. Why isn't he there? She killed him.
No, wait, I killed him. It hurts to think.

Steve gets up. "Thinking about her again?" he asks. I nod. "Don't," he says
soothingly.

I smile for him. He grins back. I feel better. He's very cute. I wish I could
touch him.

"I have to go," Steve says. "You have company." He gestures at the door and
disappears.

I wipe the sweat dripping down my face onto my sweaty forearm and face the door.
It hasn't opened in three weeks. Only a little slot for food. I know I'm being
punished for being bad. I don't want to be bad, but she does. Why do I always do
what she wants? I'm stupid.

The speaker turns on and a voice tells me to get dressed. I put on the hospital
sweats. They're made for fat people, so they're too loose around my waist and
too tight across my shoulders. They don't make clothes for girls built like me.
I'm not sure there are girls built like me. Not many girls have ten hours a day
for two years to do nothing but build and refine their muscles.

"Hands against the wall," the voice says. I obey. The door opens and a young
black orderly hesitantly steps inside. He's a big man followed by an even bigger
white man.

The handcuffs don't have a chain between them. Instead there's a thick steel
bar. I guess they're still mad about what I did with my last pair of handcuffs.
They chain the bar to thick shackles they place around my ankles. I hate walking
in that slow shuffle, but I have no choice. I consider snapping the chain. I
know that before I could do that they'd start beating me if I tried. That might
be interesting, but I'm curious about where they're taking me.

We march down the hall in silence. I haven't seen these two guys before, and
they don't seem real friendly, so I don't say anything. We stop at Dr.
Thompson's old office. The door now reads Dr. James Anderson.

Dr. James Anderson is a handsome young man, early thirties maybe, sitting behind
an institutional desk. The office was different. They'd cleaned up the blood,
replaced the carpet and furniture, and took out all of Dr. Thompson's things.
There are a few pictures on the desk and a nature calendar on the wall, but
otherwise the office is pretty bare. Dr. Anderson hasn't had time to make his
mark yet.

"Miss Hannah Weiss?" he asks. One of the orderlies grunts an affirmative. I
smile expectantly at him. He gestures at a lone chair in front of the desk. It
is made of thick steel and bolted to the floor. "Have a seat, Miss Weiss," he
says.

I sit. "It's Hannah," I say shyly.

A brief smile crosses his face. "Indeed," he says. The black guy snaps an extra
pair of handcuffs between my leg chains and the chair. He double-checks to make
sure all my bindings are secure.

"We'll be out in the hall, doc. Careful, she looks cute, but she's real
dangerous. If she tries to break somethin' or you get scared, just yell out and
we'll come in real quick." He looks nervously at me, then steps out and closes
the door behind him.

Dr. Anderson looks at me. His face is unreadable. I fidget with the chains. I
think I could snap them quickly if I needed to. I don't know exactly how strong
I am now, but I know it's pretty strong.

"You've got me all tied up," I say. He opens a folder and shuffles through some
papers. He clicks his pen as he shuffles. "What's it say about me?" I ask.

He looks up. "Hannah Weiss. Eighteen years old, as of yesterday. Happy
birthday." I giggle. "Sociable, generally cheerful, and an extremely dangerous
sociopath with violently homicidal tendencies. Tried as a minor, convicted on
two counts of premeditated murder and four counts of voluntary manslaughter.
Remanded to Schenectady State Asylum for psychological care. Violently murdered
three people here, including my predecessor Dr. Thompson. That's what this says.
That's what I've read about you."

I take a second to respond. "I sound pretty scary," I finally say.

He looks at me thoughtfully. "Yes, you do," he says. He leans back. "So, tell
me, what's your story?"

"My story?" I ask.

"Your background, your feelings, why you've slaughtered nine people."

He suddenly sounds mean, which makes me uncomfortable. "Um," I say. He waits. I
don't know what to tell him. I can't tell him about her, she wouldn't like that.

"You do know it's wrong to kill people, don't you?" he asks. I nod. "Then why do
you do it?"

"I don't know," I say.

"Bullshit! Carter Garth, found folded in half in a garbage can. You snapped his
spine. Why did you do that?"

"I don't know."

"Bullshit! Terrence Umberto, missing. Aaron Taggart, stomach torn out. Why did
you kill them?"

"I don't know."

"Bullshit. These are just the ones we know about. Jan de Vaals, head crushed.
What did you use, a vice?"

"My hands," I say softly.

His eyes widen, but he presses on. "Why?"

"I don't know!"

"Bullshit!"

"Don't," I plead.

"Hector Reynolds, every bone in his body snapped in multiple places. Why?"

"I don't know! Leave me alone!"

"Steven Little."

"Don't. Please don't."

"Every rib snapped, pelvis crushed, his penis torn off, his chest collapsed, his
heart exploded. Also with your hands? Why did you kill him? Why?"

"She wanted me to! She wants me to kill everybody! Everyone I like or care
about! She makes me feel so good about killing, makes me feel good when I
torture."

He glares sharply at me. "Who?" he demands.

I shake my head, crying. "I can't tell you," I say.

"Who makes you feel good about killing?" he yells.

Rip his throat out! she demands. My hands are twisting at the chains, trying to
find a weakness, trying to tear them apart. Kill him, you bitch! she yells.
"No!" I scream. I force my hands to stop, but it's hard. She's stronger than me.
If she gets free, she'll kill more people today. I know she will. She's mad at
me.

"Is she telling you to kill me now?" he asks quietly. I nod, still crying. The
orderlies come back into the room. "I'll see you Friday, Hannah," Dr. Anderson
says.

Back in my room, I listlessly push through a thousand squats, more because it's
routine than anything else. Routine is nice. The squats help harden my legs into
long cables of steely muscle, but since I don't have any weights the exercise
doesn't help my legs grow in size. They're already naturally huge, but I always
want bigger muscles as well as harder ones. So I've developed a way to sit in
the corner and push on one wall with my back and the other with my legs. The
combination of these two exercises, and a dozen more variations, have made my
calves and thighs not only huge but also very dense. I run my hands over the
network of large veins on my thighs and lick my lips. I look awesome. My finger
slides toward her. Yes, she begs. I rub my finger around my clitoris. I arch my
back and slide two fingers into her. She's hot and very moist. With one hand I
fondle my thighs and thick hard glutes while I masturbate with the other. I
bring my fondling hand up to my breasts and stroke my striated pecs, eventually
running my fingers over my hard nipple. I buck and thrash excitedly on the
floor, every muscle straining to its maximum, enjoying this rush of pleasure and
oblivion. My immensely muscular body writhes in powerful thrusting rhythm.

After, she is silent. I absently lick her strong-smelling sticky juices off my
fingers.

"God, that was a fantastic display."

Steve is sitting in a corner, smiling. I look down at the floor and blush
prettily. "Thanks," I say. I look up at him hesitantly through my long brown
bangs. "Can I touch you?" I ask.

He sadly shakes his head. "No. I won't let you sink further into madness." He
eyes my huge vascular sweaty body. "Much as I wish I could feel you again," he
finishes softly.

"I wish I could feel you, too," I say. I try not to think about my session with
Dr. Anderson.

"He's good, isn't he?" Steve says.

I shrug uncomfortably. "He makes me feel bad," I say.

"You should. You killed me," he says gently.

I nod. "I know."

"Trust him. I think he can help you. He's not like Dr. Thompson."

"She wants me to kill him."

"I know. Please don't listen to her. I want you to get better. She doesn't."

Something occurs to me. "When I get better, doesn't that mean you'll leave me?"
I ask.

He looks sad. "Yes," he says. "I won't exist anymore."

"I don't want you to leave me."

His voice gets intense. "Hannah, I'm not real. You need to get better. You need
to get out of here. Do it for the real me, the one you killed. Make me proud."

"I'll try," I whisper.

He smiles again. "I know you will," he says. I feel better. "Now, why don't we
get back to working out. I love watching."

For the next several hours, I put forth a special effort just for him. My
dedication to my muscular body makes him proud of me, I know. Concentrating on
becoming sane will be harder, but I'll do it for him.

Sometimes I think I haven't been locked up here for two years, that I can just
walk out the door and go back out to the world again. I can walk through city or
country, go shopping or pick flowers, work out in a gym, have dinner with my
parents. Then she speaks to me, and I am reminded where I really am. We used to
be partners, but now she's mean, demanding. She's jealous of my relationship
with Steve. She makes me feel an almost constant desire to kill which was only
briefly sated by Dr. Thompson.

The same orderlies return on Friday to take me to see Dr. Anderson again. "Hi!"
I say cheerfully as the black man enters the room.

"Um, hi," he says. He gestures for me to hold out my hands. He snaps the
handcuffs on, then finishes shackling the rest of me.

"What's your name?" I ask him.

"Frank."

"Nice to meet you again, Frank. I'm Hannah." I put on my prettiest smile and
hold out my barred hands. He looks at me nervously for a moment before shaking
my hand. My grip surprises him. I don't let go of his hand as he turns to lead
me to the door.

"This here's Jason," Frank says, indicating his partner. Jason grunts
affirmatively.

"Hi, Jason," I say. I bat my eyelashes for him. His glower cracks into a
half-smile for a brief second. I hold Frank's hand as we walk to my therapy
session.

Dr. Anderson watches me after the orderlies leave. I try to swing my feet but
the chains stop me. I pout.

"Your parents haven't been in to see you since you arrived here," he says
abruptly. I don't say anything. He's not very nice. "In fact, you haven't had a
single visitor in two years. Why haven't your parents visited?"

I don't want to answer him, but I remember what Steve said. "They're ashamed of
me," I say. "They don't want to have anything to do with me. They don't want
a...a killer for a daughter." I remember what Daddy said the last time I saw
him. The memory hurts. I don't like it.

"Are you a killer?" Dr. Anderson asks.

I squirm. "Yes," I say. I've killed people, haven't I?

"I thought she killed people," he says, emphasizing the she. It sounds silly.

"No, I do."

"Even though you don't want to?"

I hesitate. "I like it," I admit. "She likes it, too. She's evil. She likes
causing pain. When she likes something, she makes me like it."

She sends a warning pulse through my body. She's getting angry.

"Like it how?" he asks.

I glance at my crotch. "Like, sexually," I force myself to say.

"Who is she?"

She yells at me. This is our secret! You can't tell this fucker our secret! Tear
your chains off! Rip out his heart! Kill him! Kill! she screams at me. It's hard
to think with her yelling at me. "She's down there," I force out.

"In your crotch?" he asks. I nod. "Your genitalia?" I nod again. Suddenly she
gets quiet. "Is she talking to you now?"

"No, she's mad at me," I say quietly. "I wasn't supposed to tell you our
secret."

He nods. "Why is she evil?" he asks.

"Killing is evil," I say. I'm a bad girl. "And masturbating," I say. I do that a
lot.

He's quiet for a moment. "Sex?" he finally asks.

I nod.

"Does she make you have bad thoughts? Sexual thoughts and violent thoughts?" he
asks.

I shrug. "No, I like sex. I'm bad," I say miserably.

"But she gives you sexual pleasure."

"Yes."

"Who told you these thoughts are evil?"

I'm really uncomfortable now. "Mommy," I say. He waits. "Daddy, too."

He nods. "When did she first start talking to you?" he asks.

"I guess I was about ten."

"Around the time you first started masturbating?"

"Yeah."

"What happened?"

"Mommy caught me playing with myself. She yelled at me for a long time. I didn't
know what I was doing was wrong. When Daddy came home he spanked me. It hurt a
lot. Then, afterward, she spoke to me. I was scared at first, but she showed me
when it was okay to touch myself. She made me feel better about it, and about
being too muscular, and about liking boys. She made me feel good."

Dr. Anderson wants to know a lot about her. I'm not too good at explaining
everything, but he seems satisfied. He wants to know why sex is evil. It's a sin
against God, I explain. Do I believe in God? I don't know.

At the end of our session, Dr. Anderson smiles at me. He's very handsome. I
smile shyly back. "I'll see you Monday, Miss Weiss," he says.

Steve hangs around a lot this weekend, but he doesn't say much because he likes
to watch me work out. All I have to do on the weekends is eat, sleep, and work
on my muscles. I read a little, too. It used to be just books on how to build
and harden my muscles, but Steve convinced me to try reading other books. I like
reading. I can imagine I'm somewhere else, out in space or in the country or the
past or New York City. She's quiet when I read. I read slowly, though, which is
frustrating sometimes. At night Steve talks me to sleep. Sometimes it's the same
conversation we had during dinner the night before I killed him, but sometimes
it's new, which is confusing. How can he say new things if he's not real? When I
ask him this he shrugs and says I'm just making up things for him to say. That
doesn't sound right, though. He's too smart and I'm not smart at all. Maybe he's
a ghost. I don't tell him I think this because he'll get mad and say I'm silly.

On Monday Dr. Anderson is much friendlier than he was last week.

"You're a very big girl," he says casually. I nod. "Is that all muscle?"

"Yes," I say happily. I'm very proud of the way I look, though I can tell Dr.
Anderson thinks girls shouldn't be so muscular.

"Well you're obviously in great shape." She purrs. She likes compliments. "How
do you do it?"

This is different from what I was expecting. I'm happy to talk about my
exercises. I explain to him how I read about isometrics and how I started using
my room to help me build up my muscles.

"And you like working out? You like looking the way you do?" He manages to say
this without sounding judgmental.

"Yes, I'm very proud of my muscles," I say cheerfully. "I've worked on them a
long time. Being here helps, too, because there's not much else to do. It would
get boring if I wasn't working out. I like how big I've gotten. I'm hard, too.
You want to feel?" I ask, holding up my barred hands. Dr. Thompson liked to
feel.

Dr. Anderson waves one hand. "No, no, I believe you."

I smile. "Okay. But I think I look good. And boys seem to think I have a pretty
face, which is nice. Steve..." I stop talking. Dr. Anderson looks at me and
waits. I clear my throat. "Steve likes, I mean liked, how I look too. He told me
I'm very pretty."

"Steve Little?" he asks quietly.

I nod. "I liked Steve a lot," I say.

"Why did you kill him?" he asks.

"I...she...I, um, she wanted to kill someone really nice, someone I really
liked."

"Why didn't you stay away from him, if you knew she wanted to kill him?"

These are bad things to think about. My head starts to hurt. "I guess I wanted
to do it, too. She made me feel good about it."

"But you liked him."

"Yeah." I shift nervously. She starts grumbling threateningly.

"Yet you killed him. You say you killed him because you liked him."

"Y-yes," I say.

"And you know it's wrong."

"Yes."

"How did it feel to kill Steve?"

"It felt really good." I can still remember the orgasms I had while I crushed
his body to a gory pulp.

"Did you want to kill him?" he asks, staring at me intently.

"She did."

"That's not what I asked. Did you want to?"

"I don't know." He stares at me. "Yes," I say. "I mean, no, I didn't, I liked
him. He was so sweet! I wanted to love him."

"You killed him!"

"No, I mean yes, I mean we did."

"No, Hannah. You killed him. You! There is no she! It's all you!"

"I, I...Me..." She's yelling at me now. She wants me to kill him. My arms start
to flex and bulge dangerously. She powers up my calves and thighs, too. I feel
muscles start to strain all over my body. I can't control her. My chains start
to bend and the chair groans as my muscles bulge against it, pulling, twisting,
breaking. Dr. Anderson is yelling. My vision gets hazy as she takes over, angry,
wanting nothing but killing. The chain snaps and I hurl myself at Dr. Anderson,
hands outstretched, ready to claw his face off.

Large powerful hands drag me back. Heavy things beat against my flexed muscles.
It feels good. I reach out to destroy something, but I feel a sharp prick in my
neck and suddenly my world goes blank. I wake up alone in my room.

Dr. Anderson sees me again the very next day. The chains are thicker now. The
chair has been replaced by a sturdier one.

"Good afternoon, Hannah," he says gently.

I look down. "Hi, Dr. Anderson. Sorry about yesterday."

"That was an impressive display of strength. At least now we know you need
thicker chains." He is smiling.

I think about what Steve says, about wanting me to get better. About needing to
control her. She can't always get what she wants, he says. She growls at me. I'd
better, she says. No, I say. I will get better. I try to think. How can I
control her?

Dr. Anderson watches me as I think all this. I lick my lips and force myself to
speak. She's trying to stop me from saying this. "You'll need stronger chains
than these. I can break these, too," I say slowly.

He actually looks surprised. "Why do you tell me this? To protect me?" he asks.
I nod. "From her?" I nod again. "Why?"

She is silent again, seething. "Steve wants me to get better. He says I have to
control her. I want to get better, Dr. Anderson. I owe him that."

He contemplates my sudden seriousness. It is hard for me to say this. I want to
say something cheerful and funny, want to feel happy right now. It's so easy to
just be happy. But I have to focus, for Steve.

"Steve tells you things now?" Dr. Anderson asks.

"Yes," I say.

"But you killed him."

I am sweating from the effort of forcing myself to think, and forcing myself to
get her to behave. "I know," I say. "I don't think he's real. At least, he says
he's not. He says I made him up."

"But you can see him?"

"Yes. He talks to me when I get lonely," I say.

"When did that start?"

"About two weeks after I stopped being allowed to see the other patients."

"After you killed another patient?"

I nod.

He sits back and steeples his hands. "And you want to get better? That's why
you're telling me all this?"

I nod again. "Yes, I want to get better. I don't want her anymore. She's mean. I
want to be sane. I want a normal life. Steve says I can have it if I get
better."

"You're up for parole review when you turn twenty-one. That's three years. Do
you think you can get well in three years?"

"I don't know. Can I?" I ask pleadingly.

He gestures at my new chains. "Show me why I'm in danger. Break those." I
hesitate. "Go on," he says.

I clench my fists and start flexing my biceps and quads. I feel power surge
through my huge muscles, expanding the steel-hard muscles to even bigger
proportions. I grit my teeth. These chains are stronger than yesterday's. Blood
flows into my limbs, bringing thick veins to the surface. My skin stretches
tight over huge hard balls of rippling muscle. Blood pounds in my ears. I feel
the chain start to give. I flex my legs harder, pulling as hard as I can. Steel
shrieks. I grunt. Sweat begins to run down my neck and shoulders. I pull upward
with my arms and down to the sides with my legs. The chain gives steadily now,
the steel deforming. Suddenly the chain binding my ankles together snaps. My
legs are free and I can bring my hands to my chest level. I am not done yet. I
concentrate on the thick steel bar between my wrists. I push as hard as I can.
My arms shake with effort. I pour more power into it. Just when I think I can't
push any more, the bar starts to bend. I grunt and push inward, harder,
stronger. The steel bends faster. Now that it's warped I bend it back and forth,
further weakening it until it snaps. I blink sweat out of my eyes and discover
I'm standing. Dr. Anderson's eyes are wide.

I shake my head to clear it of pounding blood. My muscles are pumped and ready
for a demanding workout, but instead I slowly sit back down.

I see Dr. Anderson sitting tensely. After what I did to Dr. Thompson he must be
terrified to be alone in the room with unrestrained me, but he keeps his
professional cool. I'm impressed.

"Am I in danger now?" he asks.

She's screaming in my head. I can barely control her. "Yes," I say.

Dr. Anderson watches me for a moment. My huge muscles are flexing and my fists
are clenching and unclenching. I shake with the effort of controlling her. She's
overwhelming my mind. It's hard to think. I remember the pleasure of killing,
feeling bones crunch in my grasp, I want it.

"Restrain me," I whisper. "Please."

He calls out and the two orderlies hurry into the room. They see my snapped
chains and hesitate.

"Please escort Miss Weiss back to her room," Dr. Anderson says.

Frank turns to Jason and shrugs. "Sure, doc," he says. He walks up to me, still
hesitant, but less so because of how friendly I've been. I smile at him and he
trusts me. "Let's go, Hannah," he says, reaching out for my arm.

I've almost forgotten how good it feels, but she reminds me. I grab his arm and
brutally twist, hearing and feeling it snap. I'm so strong and it's so easy.
See, she purrs, see how good it feels, little electric jolts of pleasure surging
in my pussy. So easy just to let go and be happy, just enjoy myself. I'm a
predator, why fight it?

My thick arm snakes around his neck. I flex and hard muscles dig into his soft
black neck. His arm dangles uselessly at his side. His good arm scrabbles
helplessly at my bulging bicep. I pump my hand a few times, feeling the forearm
swell with power. He is suffocating. I feel glorious.

"Hannah!" Dr. Anderson's urgent voice breaks into the fog of power and victory.
I realize I am standing back against the wall, Frank's dying body in my arm.

One twist, she says. One hard yank, that's all I ask. Destroy the weak little
fucker.

"Hannah, let him go. Let Frank go Hannah. Please, let him go," Dr. Anderson
says, staring intently into my eyes.

Kill him.

Frank kicks out, trying to find purchase for his feet, but I am much too strong.
My weight and muscles bear down on him. He hasn't got much time left.

Break him.

"Fight her, Hannah, fight it. Don't do it, Hannah. Hannah! Stop this now!"

I try to weaken my grip. She tightens it back up, squeezing him harder. I feel
his pulse grow weaker. My bulging muscles are close to crushing something
important. She can sense it and squeezes tighter. I won't let her yank, but it's
hard.

"Remember Steve, Hannah? You told me you owe him. Let him go!"

With a yell I tear my arm away from his throat. He falls to the floor and lands
on his broken arm. He screams. "I'm sorry," I mumble as Jason beats me to the
floor and roughly handcuffs me. "I'm sorry," I say over and over, but Frank
isn't listening. Nobody's listening except her. She's mad as hell. Jason beats
me unconscious.

I feel like shit. Steve tries to comfort me. He tells me I did well. I didn't
kill Frank.

"But I almost did," I say miserably. I wish I could feel his arms around me.

"But you didn't," Steve says. "I'm proud of you."

I smile. "Thanks," I say. When I tell Dr. Anderson about this conversation, he
nods.

"Have you ever tried to stop yourself before?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Why are you seeing me here again? Aren't you afraid of me?" I
ask. I am clamped to a wheeled chair. Three orderlies with syringes had come to
my room to put me in the chair, prepared to pump me full of tranquilizer, but I
came along meekly. She tried to convince me to kill all of them.

"Of course I'm afraid of you. I'm not stupid. You have more than demonstrated
your willingness and ability to kill," Dr. Anderson snaps. I hang my head sadly.
"But I'm here to help you, Miss Weiss, and I can't do that if I never see you."
I look up. His face is unreadable.

"I didn't kill him," I say. He nods again. "Do you think there's hope for me?" I
ask hesitantly.

"Of course I do," he says. We sit in silence for a moment. "Tell me about Jeremy
Gavins," he says abruptly.

Jerry was a tall, skinny, shy man. Just my type, a geek. He had an IQ of 174.
There was nothing else remarkable about him until he burned down his house while
his wife and three daughters slept inside.

He was very kind. I liked him right away. Even though he was so smart, he never
made me feel dumb. He always talked to me like an equal, even though he was
fifteen years older than me. He taught me how to play chess. I was good at it; I
even beat him once in a while. He said it was my predator instinct. He had heard
about me before I came here. He said he admired my strength and lack of remorse.
I guess he'd think I'm weak now for starting to regret killing people, for
wanting to conform, as he called it.

He liked me, too. I giggled for him and was generally playful. He knew I was
dangerous. He's really the first person who understood me. I think he knew me
better than I do. He definitely knew I was more dangerous than any of the other
patients. He knew I shouldn't be in the general population, he'd tell me with a
wink. I see now how he played me and her, how he got us close enough to kill
him.

He didn't seem all that surprised when I leapt onto his lap and wrapped my thick
legs around his abdomen. He didn't try to defend himself as I clamped my strong
hands around his throat. She goaded me on, whipping me into a killing frenzy,
giving me orgasm after orgasm while I cracked his ribs like kindling in my
thighs and dug my fingers deep into his throat. My thumbs broke through his
skin, tearing his soft throat as my fingers popped his vertebrae, snapping his
neck and severing his spinal cord. Blood bubbled out around my thumbs, warm and
slick as I dug in deeper, my tongue out, growling in triumphant joy.

He was the only one of my victims who showed the same triumph on his dying face.
Maybe I imagined it, but I think he looked proud of me, his vicious perfect
predator.

Dr. Anderson hasn't written any of this down. His pen still hovers above his
pad, forgotten. He tries not to look revolted.

"How do you feel about killing him?" he asks after a moment. I think it's a
reflex question he asks because he can't think of anything to say.

I shrug. "I don't know," I say. "I know I should feel bad. But he wanted me to
kill him. Is that still wrong?"

Now he's writing. I see his pen scribble quickly across the page. "Did Dr.
Thompson want you to kill him?"

"No," I say. "That was wrong, I know."

"Do you regret it?"

I know what he wants to hear, but I force myself to be honest. For Steve. "No,"
I say.

He looks at me closely. "And how about Wednesday? What you did to Mr. Coleman?"

Frank is nice. I look down at my lap. "Yes, I'm sorry about that," I say. I
don't know why, but I am. It's not a lie.

I hear the door open behind me. "We're going to need some more time," Dr.
Anderson says. The door closes.

I look at Dr. Anderson and smile. I like talking to him. "I get more time
today?" I ask.

He nods. "I want to hear about Dr. Thompson. I have the feeling this may take a
while."

"Isn't it all there?" I ask, nodding at his folder.

His smile is twisted. "Dr. Thompson was a little...unorthodox. He didn't leave
any records on you."

"Just sex fantasies?" I ask.

Dr. Anderson looks startled. "How do you know that?"

I giggle. "He showed them to me. He liked writing about what I did. He even made
up new people for me to have sex with while killing them. He was pretty sick,
huh?"

He looks at me and runs his fingers through his hair. I can tell he doesn't
quite know what to think of me. I think he's doing a good job, anyway. Dr.
Thompson never knew about Steve or her, and he never could have prevented me
from killing Frank. I don't know if he even would have tried. Dr. Anderson is a
good man. Just the kind she likes to kill.

"Dr. Thompson may have acted a bit unprofessionally," he finally admits. "Tell
me about him, Miss Weiss. How you felt about him, and why you killed him."

I started seeing Dr. Thompson about a month after I killed Jerry. I was in a
solitary room with only Steve for company.

Dr. Thompson saw me three times a week. He was immediately fascinated by my
muscles and my violent nature, like Jerry. I never told him about her. I don't
think he ever suspected. He was more interested in my workouts and fantasies
than helping me get better. For two years he saw me three times a week, but it
was a whole year before he worked up the courage to touch me.

He was old, late fifties, unmarried, balding, out of shape, weak. I think that
was why he was so fascinated by my strength. I remember the first time he
touched me. He worshipped my body. His trembling wrinkly fingers reached out and
felt my arm as I flexed for him. After a year of talking about how I'd used my
body to kill, how I'd crushed bones with my bare hands, he was very cautious. He
never put himself between my thighs; he was afraid I would squeeze him to a
pulp. I would have.

Sometimes I would stand, sometimes sit. I would always flex for him. As I grew
bigger and harder, he got more excited and had less control. His wet blubbery
old lips would leave slime trails across my naked chest after his weak hands had
pulled off my hospital sweats. It was a fun game, controlling him, teasing him.
She enjoyed it, too, which was why she didn't pressure me to kill him. So many
times I could have crushed him; he put himself at my mercy. He loved the danger.

I loved trapping his neck in my calves and watch his face grow purple as he
clawed vainly at my legs. I loved the way his hands trembled as they clumsily
fondled my hard pecs and high, small, firm breasts, the way he drooled as he
kissed my football-sized vein-covered rippling biceps. He liked kissing me,
telling me I was pretty. I acted like the perfect sex toy, alluring and
dangerous and willing. I would bearhug him as he kissed me, squeezing hard
enough to feel his ribs bend and almost break. I'd hold him as he gasped for
breath. His worship sessions were a fun and welcome break from the boredom of my
room.

After a few months he needed more. He couldn't stand just kissing, licking, and
pawing at me. He started stripping me naked, squeezing the muscular ridges of my
rock-hard ass, sliding his hands over my vast rippling thighs, but always
careful not to put his head between them. He was so careful about that. I
enjoyed the teasing, too, knowing that if he ever was that foolish, I'd let her
snap my thighs around him and grind his skull until it crumbled. She would have
loved that.

He started pulling down his pants and rubbing his old cock over my hard young
muscles.

Dr. Anderson looks distinctly uncomfortable. I pause. "I'm sorry," I say. "Do
you want me to stop?" I'm wet from remembering this, but he looks like he
swallowed castor oil.

He swallows. "This is more pornographic than I thought," he says.

I shrug. "It's what happened," I say. "I didn't mind. I liked it."

He nods. "Go on," he says.

Anyway, just my big flexed muscles got poor old Dr. Thompson so excited he would
cum all over me, on my thighs, my biceps, my neck, chest, stomach, calves, face,
anywhere he happened to be rubbing. He was scared the first time, which I took
advantage of by threatening to snap his spine if he didn't lick it all up. "Is
that all you got?" I'd ask before he dressed me and called in the orderlies.

He'd long ago given up even the pretense that it was therapy. As soon as the
orderlies left he'd strip me and hump my willing flesh. He was so old and lonely
and wrinkly and unattractive. I even felt sort of sorry for him. He was a
disgusting old pervert, but I enjoyed playing with him, and he was addicted to
worshipping me. And all that time in my room to work out gave me plenty of hard
muscle to worship. I'd be good for him, playful, sexy, and cocky, smiling and
dangerous, wanton. I even orgasmed a few times from the pleasure of his worship
and the thought of what I could do to his weak old body.

Eventually, though, we got bored of him. Every time we'd come in, he'd just
strip me and worship me and cum and it'd be over. He had nothing interesting to
say, nothing new to do. And I was so very bored. She thought it would be fun to
kill him, to do something different. I agreed. She told me how and I giggled.
That would be fun.

The next time I came in, this would be about a month ago, he approached me to
take off my clothes. I shook my head. "Turn around," I said. He was so used to
obeying me during our sessions he didn't even hesitate. "Kneel," I commanded. He
knelt. I giggled. I'm so naughty.

I brought my hands over his head and pulled back so the chain between the
handcuffs dug into his neck. He knew what was about to happen but it was too
late, I was already yanking hard on the chain. It dug into his old fatty neck.
He choked and flailed, but I was too strong. He didn't stand a chance.

I planted one foot into his back and started putting some power into my arms. I
sawed the chain back and forth until it was slick with blood. He made funny
gurgling sounds. I pulled with awesome strength, slicing the chain deep into his
neck. I was forcing his head back with the power of my pull but keeping his body
steady with my powerful leg and foot. I heard vertebrae crackle. Still I
relentlessly pulled, sawing and yanking, until the chain dug all the way through
his neck into his spinal column. I wrapped my hands around the gory dripping
chain and pulled as hard as I could. My shoulders strained and my biceps flared
with power. Every vein on my arms puffed up to full vascularity. I showed no
mercy. At last I heard tearing sounds, and with a few powerful wrenches, his
spine tore. I held his head in my hands as his lifeless body slumped to the
ground. Blood and dirty grey fluid poured onto my hands.

I guess my loud moaning as I orgasmed alarmed the orderlies. Two of them came
through the door and saw me holding Dr. Thompson's head. They hesitated in
nauseous shock. I dropped the head and, with my arms so pumped, gave one hard
yank on the chain. It was much weaker than the chains they use now. My hands
were free.

One of the orderlies regained his senses and charged. I whipped my right hand
up. A broken chain link snagged his cheek and tore it open from ear to mouth.
Before he could even cry out in pain I slammed my left fist into his head. I
barely missed his temple. He crashed into a wall and slumped down.

The other orderly screamed loudly. I was on him in a heartbeat. I sent four
punches crashing into his stomach, snapping his ribs. My knee came up and
obliterated his balls. I pounded on his skull with my hands until I felt bones
crunch wetly. I felt high and wild as she gave me almost unbearably intense
orgasms. His head began to disintegrate under my unchecked punches. Sharp bone
stabbed my hands but I didn't care. My fists dripped with gore and I loved it.
Soon he was dead. I let my playtoy collapse in a broken heap.

I ran into the hall. Orderlies ran from all directions and beat me to the floor.
I punched and kicked wildly but couldn't land any destructive blows. I felt a
half-dozen pinpricks and suddenly I was unconscious. When I woke up, I was in
the room I have now.

Dr. Anderson looks up after I finish my violent story. He must see the wet spot
in my crotch. I can't tell what he's thinking. "Thank you, Miss Weiss," he says.
He walks over to the door and opens it. The same stony-faced orderlies that
brought me here come in to take me away. As they wheel me past Dr. Anderson
briefly puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. I feel better.

Weekends I relax a bit. I don't work out quite so fanatically. I take some time
to read a little. I'm a slow reader, but it doesn't seem to matter here. Steve
talks to me more on the weekend, too. He thinks things are going well with Dr.
Anderson. He says he's proud of me. I like hearing that.

"I don't think Dr. Anderson finds me attractive," I tell Steve. I am sweating
after an hour of working on my quads and calves. I lazily lay back in bed to
talk with him.

Steve sits down beside me. I know better than to reach out for him. He gets
upset when I do that. "That's good," he says. "He's supposed to help you get
well, not cum all over your calves."

I giggle. "That was fun, too. I miss it."

Steve looks at me sadly. "I wish I could do that," he says.

I instantly feel bad again. "I wish you could too. I'm so sorry," I say. Stupid
sap, she grumbles at me.

"Hey, don't get down. It's Saturday! Come on, let's play follower. Imbibe," he
says playfully.

I smile at him. "Empathy," I reply. I've gotten good at this. One of my books is
a Webster's Dictionary.

We play for a few minutes and I forget about what I was feeling bad about. He
wins eventually. "I don't know why you think you're dumb. You're not," he says
after we finish.

I remember what he said on our date. "I don't think you're dumb. I think you're
lovely," he said.

"If I weren't dumb, I wouldn't have killed you," I say quietly. I look at him,
frustrated. "I can't even touch you!"

"I know. I wish you could." He stands up. "Good night, Hannah," he says. "Sleep
tight."

I blink my tears away. "Good night, Steve," I say. He's gone.

The big men roll me into Dr. Anderson's room again. I can tell he's thought a
lot about what I told him last week. Maybe it's the way he twiddles his pen, or
the concerned way he looks at me.

"I don't think we've been doing a very good job," he says. "We've kept you
cooped up in that little room for too long. How would you like to mix with the
other patients again?"

I'm surprised. I take a moment to respond. "Aren't you afraid of what I'll do to
them?" I ask.

"Well, you'll be restrained at first, and constantly monitored. But no, I think
your desire to get better is real, and the best way to help you become normal is
to treat you normally. Contact with other people, regular therapy, and perhaps,
if you're good, privileges."

I think about this. It will be nice to be with other people again. Yes, it will,
she agrees. Not to kill them, I tell her. I want to be normal. She grumbles.

"Will you be with me?" I ask.

He smiles. "At first," he says. "But I'd like to reserve most of our time for
therapy."

I smile back. "Okay," I say. "I'd like that."

He wheels me past the surprised orderlies outside and down some corridors until
we reach a common room. There are a dozen people in there, the largest gathering
I've seen in two years. I only recognize Sam, a violently paranoid
schizophrenic. The others must be new since I've been isolated.

"Hi Sam," I say cheerfully, glad to see someone I recognize.

"Hannah! Long time!" he greets me. He looks furtively around, eyeing Dr.
Anderson suspiciously. "He stealing your thoughts?" he asks me in a whisper.

I laugh. "No, Sam, just my mobility." I nod at my bound hands and legs.

He bobs his head nervously. "Oh, yeah, gotta be careful of you, you're
dangerous. Jerry Jerry poor Jerry. You fucking killed him, man, fucking tore his
throat out. Jeeezus."

"I know. I'm a bad girl. But I'm trying to get better," I say.

"Yeah man better, that's all they say here is better. Better and normal. Fuck
man better means not tearing my throat out, you hear?" he asks nervously.

"I hear," I say seriously.

He grins suddenly. "You're all right, Hannah, all right. You get better now, and
I'll get better, and we'll all be better better as butter."

Dr. Anderson introduces me to the other patients in the common room. All have
some history of violence and antisocial behavior. Before I know it our time is
up.

"Will you be okay here, Miss Weiss? Or shall I have you taken back to your
room?" Dr. Anderson asks.

"I'd like to stay here, if that's okay," I say hopefully.

Dr. Anderson nods. "Behave yourself," he says, and gives me the same pat on the
shoulder before leaving.

Over the next several weeks, I spend several hours a day in the common room. I
work out extra hard when I get back so I won't lose my muscle bulk and density,
but I enjoy my time with the others and don't mourn my lost exercise time. Dr.
Anderson talks to me about her a lot, and about how I feel about killing. Lately
I've started to feel bad about it for some reason. Maybe it's Steve, or seeing
Sam again, or thinking about Jerry, or having been isolated for so long and now
among people again. I don't know. She doesn't feel bad, though, and she
sometimes makes it impossible for me to think about anything else. She'll
interrupt in the middle of my conversations with other patients, so I become
unresponsive, every muscle tense and twitching, as we fight over what I want to
do. She's very persuasive, and it's becoming harder to argue with her.

Dr. Anderson asks me if I like my visits to the common room. I tell him yes. He
asks if I think I'm a threat to the other patients. Yes again. She tries hard to
get me to say no. She wants to be free.

Every once in a while I catch myself drifting off into a violent fantasy. She'll
purr as I think about snapping a patient's neck or crushing his chest in my
legs. It takes an effort not to just relax and enjoy the fantasy. I have to
fight it. I have to, for Steve. And for myself. I want to leave. It's been two
years already. I'm sooo bored!

She talks to me less often now. She hardly ever yells at me or tries to get me
to kill someone. My therapy sessions with Dr. Anderson are going well. He seems
pleased that she's quieter now. He tells me they're going to stop restraining me
around the other patients. I'm afraid, but he reassures me. He tells me he'll be
right there with me. Somehow that helps.

For the next session I am not in the chair. They put me back in my old
restraints. I know I can break them if I want to, but I'll try not to. Dr.
Anderson leads me into the common room. The patients that are sane enough to
realize who I am are afraid of me. Except Sam, he's always nervous, but he's
glad to see me out of the chair. He doesn't like restraints. He's not a
particularly big or strong man, but he too snapped his handcuffs when he was
arrested, then nearly kicked through the partitioning in a police car. He
settled down when they let him sit in the back unrestrained. He told me this
during one of his rare moments of clarity. He shakes my hand when he sees me.
The strength of my grip surprises him. I don't squeeze very hard, but he still
winces. For a brief moment the old excitement grips me and I want to keep
squeezing until I feel his hand disintegrate, but she keeps quiet and I control
myself.

Dr. Anderson is still very happy with my progress. I am as honest with him as I
can be. I try to tell him everything she says and wants, what Steve and I talk
about, and my feelings. He wants to talk about things that hurt sometimes,
things I don't like thinking about, like my parents and killing Steve. I try not
to become upset, but sometimes I cry. Dr. Anderson says I fluxuate between
giggly and depressed too much. He says I might be manic. I think that means I
have too much energy, but I'm not sure.

Time seems to pass more quickly now. Each day is a lot like the last. I've built
up a new routine. I exercise just as much as I used to, but now I go to the
common room for a few hours every day.

One session Dr. Anderson asks me if I know what day it is. "No," I say
cautiously.

"It's your birthday," he says with a smile. "You're nineteen years old now.
Congratulations."

I don't feel nineteen. I still feel like a little girl sometimes. "Thanks," I
say.

He stands. I stand too. "I have a present for you, Miss Weiss. I think you'll
like it."

He leads me out of the office and through some unfamiliar corridors. The
orderlies follow some distance behind after he waves them back. Eventually we
come to a double door. He opens it, and for the first time in three years, I am
outside.

We walk for a few minutes away from the building. The grounds are large and
groomed. I see some forest beyond a fence. I look back at the psychiatric care
building and see two of the orderlies leaning against the wall. I turn to Dr.
Anderson. Tears stream down my face. I don't try to wipe them away. "Thank you,"
I say.

"I'm not done yet," he says. He pulls a key out of his pocket. I stare in shock.
Is he going to...? He fits the key into my handcuffs. They fall off my wrists.
He bends down and unshackles my legs.

I don't know how to respond. I just stand for a few minutes, letting it all sink
in. Finally I say, "I'm glad you took those off."

"Why's that?" he asks me. He's smiling, but I can see he's a little nervous. He
needn't be. Even she's happy now.

"Because now I can do this," I say, wrapping my thick arms around him and
squeezing him tightly. I bury my face in his chest and let the tears flow.
"Thank you," I say, over and over, "thank you."

He pats my head. "You're welcome," he says. "Happy birthday." He lets me squeeze
him as long as I like, rocking back and forth.

Finally I let go. The sun beats down on my face. I smell the freshly cut grass.
I take deep breaths and listen to the wind blowing through the trees. I hardly
dare believe this is real.

"Can I?" I ask, waving my hand vaguely. I don't know what I'm asking.

"Do whatever you like," Dr. Anderson says. "We can stay out here for an hour."

It is an hour of freedom, the best birthday present I could ask for. I take a
few steps, slowly accelerating, and then start running. The feeling is
unfamiliar, different from running in place. Different muscles start working.
Instead of feeling sore, though, I feel wonderful. I can tell I'm not as fast as
I used to be, but I feel like I can never tire. I've built up so much strength
and endurance these past few years but I've never been able to test it. So I
run. I run out to the fence and along it for a few minutes before turning back
and heading towards the building. It's coming back to me. As the blood pumps
through my legs and starts pounding in my head I feel alive.

I try a front handspring, but I miscalculate and end up sprawled in the grass.
I'll have to teach myself my old gymnastics moves again, but right now I don't
care. I roll around, soaking in the sun and grass and wind. I'm laughing and
crying at the same time.

All too soon my hour is over. Dr. Anderson has not interrupted all this time,
but now he calls out to me and I have to come. Stay out, she pleads. No, I tell
her.

He doesn't put my restraints back on. Instead he accompanies me back to my room.

"Can I ever do that again?" I ask, hardly daring to hope.

"I don't see why not," he says. "I think we can start leaving these off, right?"
he asks, holding up my shackles.

I bite my lip. "I think so," I say, looking up at him.

He takes me out for an hour every week. I no longer wear restraints in the
common room. I'm trying really hard to be good. When she starts acting up and
screaming at me, I have the orderlies lock me up back in my room. She speaks to
me less and less these days. I almost never have to go back. Steve speaks to me
less often, too. That makes me sad, but I have other people to almost make up
for it.

One day Dr. Anderson takes me into a weight room. There are exercise machines
and free weights arranged haphazardly. Most of the equipment is pretty old, but
it looks wonderful to me.

"I thought you might like to use a real gym," Dr. Anderson says as I wander
around the room, touching weights and experimentally hefting them. "This is
mostly for staff, though patients can use it, too. I was thinking you could help
other staff and patients train, since you seem to know so much about exercising
and bodybuilding. It would be a service that would help you interact with people
and look good for your parole hearing."

"I'd like that," I say happily. I pick up a sixty pound freeweight and curl it,
watching the muscles in my arm tighten. It's too light; I'll have to find
something else to curl with. As I play I start to realize how much stronger I am
now than I was when I was committed, and I was frighteningly strong then.

Something bothers me. I turn to Dr. Anderson. "You want me to be this strong?
You don't think it's dangerous?"

He looks at me seriously. "It's your mind that's dangerous, not your body. Your
body just happens to be your tool. It could have been a knife or a gun. The
important thing is that we heal your mind, not that we make you weak."

I'm so happy he feels that way. I was afraid he would start wanting me to work
out less. I never expected he'd let me use a gym! "Thank you," I say. I say that
to him a lot. He's wonderful.

I start teaching anybody who wants to listen about proper workout techniques and
become the personal trainer to some of the orderlies and a lot of patients,
including Sam and Frank. Last time I saw Frank he was in a cast, but his arm's
healed now. He doesn't quite trust me anymore, even when I look really sad and
apologize sincerely. To try to make up for what I did to him, I help him
exercise and spot for him. I teach him the same techniques I teach everybody. He
seems to appreciate it.

It feels really good to teach other people something. I feel so dumb around
other people most of the time, it's nice to know something they don't. That's
why I started bodybuilding. I was already teased for being a big girl, so I
thought it would be nice to be better than my classmates at something. I built
up muscles really fast.

Frank and I are spotting each other during our daily workout. We've developed a
bit of a bond over working out. He's quite handsome and looks great when his
muscles are all pumped after a workout. He's attracted to me, too. I guess
that's why he's forgiven me so easily.

He puts down a weight and loses his balance, falling into me. I fall with him,
letting him drag me to the floor. I land on top, straddling him, my face close
to his. I smell our sweat. I feel his erection against my crotch. I kiss his
sweaty black chest. Our hands entwine and I push his arms up over his head. I
rub my small firm breasts against him.

We start kissing each other roughly. I grind my crotch against him. Somehow
neither of us are surprised by our lust for each other. His hands dig into the
steely muscles covering my back. I want him. She wants him. Yes, she says, take
him, give him to me!

He frees his cock, then his hands go for my shorts. My mind gets hazy. She
floods me with pleasure until all I want is him inside me.

"Frank," I say breathlessly.

"Yes." His eyes are glazed as he tries to pull my shorts off.

"Frank, no," I say. He keeps pulling. Shut up, you idiot! she yells at me. Just
enjoy it. "Frank, stop it," I force myself to say. "Please, stop." Even as I say
this I run my strong hands down his back, pulling him into me, letting him kiss
and bite my neck.

He doesn't respond. I don't blame him. Everything I do screams yes. I hardly
have the energy to fight against her and him. She's going to kill Frank, going
to finish the job she started in Dr. Anderson's office.

His dick pokes at my thighs. She starts to spread them.

"No!" I shout, rolling off Frank. He tries to mount me but I roughly shove him
away. He shakes himself, looking confused.

"Oh God," he says. "Hannah, I'm sorry..."

I huddle against the wall, naked, rocking back and forth. The urge to fuck his
brains out is almost overwhelming. "Go away!" I shout. "Get Dr. Anderson. Get
away from me!"

He doesn't understand that I'm trying to protect him. He thinks I'm mad at him.
He tries to apologize, but I just scream at him to stay away from me until he
pulls his pants up and leaves. I'm still huddled against the wall when Dr.
Anderson arrives.

"Hannah," he says, looking at me. He stops a few feet away, hesitating.

"They never found out about two men I killed," I say miserably.

"Two more?" he asks softly. He's surprised by my admission.

"They were never found. I messed them up pretty bad. There wasn't much left," I
say, sniffling.

"Were you going to kill Frank?" he asks, very softly.

I shake my head quickly up and down. "I'm sorry," I say, wiping away tears. He
hands me my sweats. I slowly get to my feet and get dressed.

"It's okay," he says, pulling me to him. I hug him tightly, crying into his neat
white shirt. He pats me on the head and tell me everything will be okay.

They fire Frank. They don't let me say goodbye or apologize before he leaves.
They put me in chains again for a few weeks until Dr. Anderson says it's okay to
take them off again.

But I hardly care about any of this. For the first time since I was little, I am
alone. She's stopped speaking to me at all. Not pouting, not angry, just not
there. I thought I would be happy to be "normal". But I just feel empty. Steve's
gone, too. Now, when I'm alone in my room, I'm really alone. No one to talk to.

Dr. Anderson is happy about this. He thinks I've made real progress. I feel
good, too, when I talk to him. I'm happy when he tells me what a good job I'm
doing in the weight room, helping staff and patients become physically fit.

With nothing else to do, not even Steve to goad me into reading anymore, I spend
almost all my time in there. I'm truly huge. I weigh two hundred pounds. Thick
veins pulse against my skin even when I'm not flexing. I feel alive when I'm
putting on dense muscle, pushing myself harder. I'm stronger than anyone I've
ever heard of. I can curl one hundred pounds in one hand for ten reps. I can
bench four hundred pounds and press fifteen hundred.

Dr. Anderson thinks I'm stronger than most professional bodybuilders. Of course,
they have to worry about things like weight and too much muscle mass and judges
and diet, whereas I don't care about any of that. I look freaky, I know, but I
like it. Besides, what else am I going to do? When I'm not working out, there's
no one there, nobody to talk to. Nights are the worst. When she was here, she
kept away things that made me feel bad. Now all I think about are the men I've
killed. I hear them scream.

After a few months, even this passes. I can sleep now, and I don't miss her too
much. I'm normal. Normal enough to pass parole with Dr. Anderson's
recommendation, anyway.

He gives me the number of a friend of his in New York City who can get me set up
with a job and a place to live. I ask what kind of job. He says shipping, so I
can use these big muscles of mine to toss around heavy crates. I smile and say
that sounds like fun.

I can leave today. I stand next to Dr. Anderson at the entrance to the asylum.
None of my clothes fit me anymore, so he bought some and gave them to me as a
birthday present. I'm twenty-one now, and I'm leaving.

I turn to Dr. Anderson and hug him. The clothes are, as usual, too tight across
my shoulders and around my arms and legs and too loose around my waist, but I
don't mind.

"Thank you. You've done so much for me," I say as I crush him in a tight
bearhug.

He gasps as I release him. "You're welcome, Miss Weiss," he says with a smile.
He holds out his hand and I shake it. I pump up my vascular forearm as I squeeze
his hand, not too tightly. He laughs and squeezes the hard muscle. "You'll do
fine, just fine." He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks at me kindly.
"Good luck, Miss Weiss," he says.

I smile back and turn to the exit. I take a breath and step through. The sun is
bright. I look at the cab waiting to take me to the city. I don't have anything
to put in the trunk, so I step inside the cab. I watch the asylum disappear
behind me.

"Congratulations, Hannah, you made it," Steve says beside me. I turn to him.

"Steve?" I say.

He winks. "Shh, don't let him hear you," he says, gesturing to the driver.

I nod. Does that mean she...

Of course. You didn't think you could get rid of me, did you? she says. She
laughs. We fooled 'em.