Runs with Scissors

The lights flicked on without warning, harsh and sterile. A staff member's voice followed a beat later, slicing through the silence with forced cheer. "Mornin', ladies! Headcount!"

Riley blinked against the sudden brightness. Her body protested as she sat up, sore in places she hadn't expected—especially her legs and stomach. The top bunk didn't come with a ladder, and climbing up without help each night left her bruised.

Girls stirred around the room. Without being told, they filed out of bed and into formation. A single-file line snaked down the side of the room. No talking. No eye contact. Just movement, like a choreographed dance everyone had memorized but her. Riley slipped off her bunk awkwardly, biting back a wince, and took her place at the end.

Each girl knew her number.

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

The count continued, voices flat and practiced. When it reached Riley, she hesitated briefly. 

"Thirty."

No one acknowledged the delay. The staff member scribbled something on a clipboard and nodded. "Ten minutes. Get dressed, make your beds, brush your teeth."

The room exploded into quiet urgency. Girls moved quickly, knowing the clock had started. Riley yanked on her clothes, fingers fumbling. She hadn't yet mastered the speed they all seemed to possess. Her sheets were crooked. Her shirt twisted. She couldn't find her toothbrush at first and felt her chest tighten.

She managed to finish just as a staff member passed by the doorway. She paused, scanning the room, eyes darting between each bed. Riley stood still, trying to blend in.

As the staff member turned to go, her HOPE Buddy, Amy, leaned over slightly and whispered just loud enough, "You missed a wrinkle."

Riley's eyes snapped to her, but the girl was already remaking Rley's bed.

"Okay ladies, line up. Time for group!"

The girls ran to line structure and counted off. All an arms length from the girl in front of them. Off they went. 

Group therapy was held in a sterile room with folding chairs arranged in a perfect circle. A staff member sat just outside the ring, clipboard in hand. Nearby, another adult sat with a binder balanced on her knee.

Riley looked at Any questioningly.

"Who's that?" She whispered, the only one in the room to say a word. 

"That's Marina, the family rep. Anything said in group would be relayed back to parents—summarized and documented. You can only write your parents letters on Sundays. Outside of that, Marina talks to your parents."

Girls raised their hands to be the next to share. When one raised her hand—a slight, freckled girl with messy red hair and blotchy skin, Marina said it was her turn. 

Marina said, "Thank you for sharing Amanda. I acknoledge you for stepping out of your comfort zone. "

Maybe this place wasn't so bad. 

The poor girl looked so frightened. She was trembling before she even spoke. Her voice cracked as she pushed the words out. "I miss my mom. I miss my little brother. I feel like I've been erased. Nobody tells me anything. I don't even know if they're okay."

Her shoulders curled inward as she cried, openly now, not bothering to wipe the tears. "I don't belong here. I never belonged here."

There was a beat of silence before the hands of almost every girl went up.

The staff member pointed at a blonde girl across the circle. "Go ahead."

"My experience of you," she said, her tone practiced, sharp, "is that you're being manipulative. You want us to feel bad for you instead of taking accountability."

Another hand shot up. "My experience of you is that you use sadness to get out of work. This isn't about your family—it's about you not doing your program."

One by one, hands raised. Three girls were allowed to offer "feedback,", but it seemed to Riley that it wasn't honesty but scorn.

"My experience of you is that you play the victim." The third girl finished. 

The red-haired girl shrank further with every word. No one comforted her. And Marina just kept writing.

Riley didn't move. She didn't raise her hand. She sat rigid, watching as the girl's voice was buried under the weight of everyone else's truths.

She realized then that group therapy wasn't a place for comfort—it was a proving ground. Weakness was exposed, not soothed.