Her voice in my bones

It happened by accident.

At least I think it did.

The nurse left the tablet open when she stepped out of the therapy room.

She must've thought the screen timed out.

It didn't.

And what it showed?

Wasn't a schedule.

Wasn't a chart.

It was my file.

Unredacted.

---

I didn't move at first.

Just stared.

Frozen.

Like I was looking at the version of me they built without my consent.

---

Diagnosis notes.

Incident reports.

Staff memos.

Psych flags.

But what shattered me wasn't what they wrote…

It was what they changed.

---

There was a scanned document — my original intake form.

But someone had edited it.

My words, reworded.

> "I feel erased" became "She displays paranoid ideation."

> "I don't feel safe at home" became "Possible attention-seeking behavior."

---

That's when my hands started shaking.

Not from fear.

From rage.

> They didn't just misinterpret me. They rewrote me.

---

I pulled out my phone.

No camera allowed.

But I didn't need a photo.

I memorized the phrases.

Burned them into my brain.

And then — just before the nurse came back —

I noticed the last note on the screen:

> "High verbal clarity. Unusually self-aware. Begin reevaluation — potential risk to institutional authority."

---

That's all I needed to know.

I was never here to be healed.

I was here to be controlled.

Until I stopped fitting the mold.

And now?

They were scared of me.

---

I looked up at the nurse as she reentered.

She didn't notice the shift in my face.

But I did.

It was the first time I wasn't asking questions in therapy.

> I was collecting evidence for war.