The following days dragged worse than when I was hospitalized.

I flicked through channels and all they wanted to talk about was the Greenwich Girls. That's what they called us. It felt like either we were bandits or cult members instead of real, regular people just trying to readjust.

I didn't want to watch cartoons, but the more I saw mugshots and reporters in front of the building, I would've settled for SpongeBob.

Then I reached a channel I didn't recognize. It was broadcasting the trial from different angles. Whenever someone moved or spoke, they took center stage like actors in a movie.

I don't remember everything, but, when I saw Lou, I felt my stomach twist. Her waves were turned into an asymmetrical bob. Her aged face bore heavy foundation and concealer, anything to make her look younger than she was.

I wanted to vomit.

I turned off the TV and sat up on the bed. My curtains were shut and my lights were off, so other than moonlight seeping through the cracks, I could barely see the room.

I thought about going for a run, but I rejected the idea out of fear that someone would grab me or something bad would happen.

I even thought about doing push-ups, but I'd done that enough times to give myself a six-pack.

My eyes found their way to the remote, then the TV. I'll admit, I was curious. I saw Anna, Sandra, and their lawyers sitting opposite Lou and her team. There were others but I only glanced.

I powered the TV on just when the judge asked, "Are there any updates as to the whereabouts of-" and the camera panned to the missing teen's parents sitting in the last row on Anna and Sandra's side. They looked as big as her in weight and height; they were maybe six-three, four hundred pounds, and dark-skinned.

"No, ma'am, but the public is working diligently to locate her," their lawyer said, and the judge scoffed incredulously.

"Well, Mr. Sanders, it's not the public's job to find that little girl. I don't want to hear what the public is doing." She rubbed her nose bridge under her thin glasses, sighed, and calmly said, "Let's start with the claims and evidence."

They showed pictures of the building, the rooms, the grounds, and the basement. I learned that there was a storm shelter on the side of the house opposite the basement. So, facing the house, the basement is on the right-hand side, and the storm shelter is on the left-hand side.

Judging by the photos, I believe that's where they took her because she mentioned rats and flies, but I didn't see any signs of either.

By the time they presented my journal, it was midnight. Sandra and Anna's lawyer, a thin man with dark hair and a pointy nose, was reading the entries about the institution.

"I asked for a description, thinking maybe it was Jay, but none of the girls were able to see him. Lou sent them to their rooms and told the inspectors, 'They needn't be bothered this afternoon. A lot of them are on new medications as prescribed by their physicians, so they're resting.'"

Lou looked away and crossed her legs. She fluffed her blazer, then ran her fingers through her hair.

He continued reading and the more he did, the more restless she grew. A couple of the jurors watched her, and some onlookers shook their heads.

"She couldn't be with us today, but she wanted this to speak for her." He held up the journal like a Bible, speaking like every word was as true as it gets.

Lou's team decided to paint her as a victim. They brought up her childhood and diagnoses.

"At seventeen, Ms. Anderson was left to raise herself when her mother passed away," her lawyer said, and the judge listened with her elbow on her desk and her finger under her chin. "She wasn't able to locate her father, so she spent her last years of young-like I said-raising herself."

I don't and didn't know if any of it was true. It's not like it mattered, regardless; she manipulated those who swore to protect us. She convinced them that she was a saint, opening her facility to a group of mentally ill when it was all about money and power.

"She started the non-profit at age forty, first intending to foster children, but after attending school for psychology, she partnered with a few other graduates and founded Greenwich Institution." He flipped open the manilla folder on his desk and sifted through the papers. "I have reviews and testimonials from former patients and relatives praising my client for helping them."

Judge Lucas took her glasses in one hand and pinched her nose bridge with the other. She massaged it in circles before dropping her arm and placing her glasses back on.

"Bailiff, bring them to me please." She watched the man walk to Lou's lawyer, then she extended a hand as he approached her with two documents. She read one with her manicured nail under her lip, "Louisa Anderson may be the kindest woman you'll ever meet. She truly cares for her patients and treats them like roommates instead of patients. It says this was typed by a Jane Wittman."

"Correct, your honor." She sat the two papers aside.

"Well, this glowing review doesn't change the fact that several patients were subjected to cruel and unusual conditions, and a minor is missing." She interlaced her fingers like she was praying, then said, "I want an explanation for that and that only."

I started dozing off before he could explain, and each time when I woke up, I caught fragments of the proceedings that I still can't piece together to this day.

The next time I woke up, George Lopez was playing. My lips and cheek were covered in drool, and I felt like I'd peed on myself.

I threw the blanket off my legs and saw that I was lying in blood.

"Shit," I hissed. When I was home, I had pads and menstrual underwear under my sink. I had Midol, tea bags, and heat pads. I had nothing at the hotel.

I jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom with my legs clenched shut like that could help. I was waddling toward the sink, and if it weren't a bad situation, I might've found it funny.

I had to hand wash my underwear and shorts in the sink, hang them to dry, and use a rag for that moment. I was so afraid to wake up with bloody underwear, that I threw on some clothes and left.

I remember thinking about how peaceful Columbia was at night and how nice the air felt on my skin. It was like lying against an open window on a rainy night.

I strolled along the orange beams from the streetlamps until I reached a convenience store. It was smaller than a gas station and the neon sign was almost completely dead. Instead of saying Open, it read as Open.

Before I walked in, I saw a man leaning against the counter talking to the clerk and scratching a lottery ticket.

"I honestly think New York is starting to be the safest place to be," the clerk said. I went near the coolers where I knew they'd keep toilet paper and motor oil. "Think about it: here, people could smile in your face and stab you when your back is turned. There, they'll yell for your attention, then stab you."

"I think I'd rather be somewhere where I won't be stabbed." He set the quarter down and clicked his teeth. I grabbed a box of pads and took it to the register. "Damn, another blank."

As the clerk swept the tickets and shavings into his trash bin, the TV switched to a news station. The volume was low, but the subtitles were on and the reporter said something about a missing person in the Greenwich Girls trial.

"You need to stop wasting your money on this and just apply here." He raised the quarter for emphasis, showing the customer the dulled piece on the edge of the quarter.

The man fanned him off and said, "Nah. One of these days, I'll win the numbers and own this place."

"Doubt it." The cashier looked at my item, and my face, then he followed my eyes to the TV. "Hey, you two heard of this case?"

"Who hasn't? I can't even listen to the radio without this popping up on the airways," the man said. I flicked my attention from one to the other and they stared back at me. I sat the box on the counter, then tucked my hair behind my ears. "You know what they're saying-right?"

"Who?" He lifted the box and his scanner while I dug out five dollars.

"They're saying this was all some cult shit gone wrong." I knew I made a face, but I didn't care. It didn't matter anyway, because they weren't looking at me. "I heard they killed that one girl that went missing, and the one with the diary might've skipped town because she knew something."

"Huh." They were silent for a while before turning to the TV. The customer had raised eyebrows as he shook his head, and the cashier looked like he had a newfound perspective.