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Darryl is dead.

I can still feel the ridges of his class ring pressing into my palm.

Did I take it as a trophy?

Am I the killer?

Am I losing the control I’ve fought all these years to gain?

“Florence? How are you feeling?” Dr. Tanner repeats.

“Like I’m two people,” I answer. “Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde.”


“Can you elaborate?” Dr. Tanner’s fingers skip across the laptop’s keyboard.

I don’t want to lie. I’m sick of lying. But I can’t explain why, can I? So I do the next best thing. I shrug again. That’s what we teens usually do, right?

Dr. Tanner’s hands pause. She studies me. I divert my eyes, keeping the guilt from poking through my defenses. Wanting to plead for help. Holding back. Like I’ve always held back.

This problem isn’t fixable. I know. I’ve done the research.

The only cure . . .

. . . is death.

I want to be Normal. What Is Normal?