nature

There was only one rule: don't open the door.

You peered through the window, the glass too thick to hear anything on the other side. She taught you to blow hot on the glass and trace a message in the condensation before it disappeared.

U OK? you scribbled first.

She studied the letters before bringing her hand to her mouth and chewing the fleshy pad of her thumb.

Most babies sucked their thumbs.

She liked to draw blood.

*

You watched as the familiar pink tinge spread over her teeth, a smear on her lip like deranged lipstick. You shook your head, blew on the glass, and drew a heart.

Once, a therapist had suggested she was looking for more nurturing. You'd fired him after one session, remembering how you'd kept trying to breastfeed after one of her bites sent you into septic shock, the red lines crawling up your chest from the blackened wound at your nipple, strangling you from the inside out.

Fourteen years of sleepless panic later, you asked the judge. He signed the order while your daughter fought the security guard.

*

Everyone said not to send your child here. The lawsuits alone were enough to keep you awake at night.

*

She stopped chewing her thumb and slapped her wet hand against the glass, dragging a red streak in front of your eyes. She lifted her finger to start writing when she started to twitch, her face wrenched in pain as she staggered away from the window.

You could see the scar where they'd implanted the compliance device on the back of her neck.

A nurse came by with windex and bleach. Reminded you: next time, you'd only have ten minutes.

A longer visit would have to be earned.