“Liana?”
I turn around. Sienna is standing behind me, tapping her violet slippers. “Time for group.” Her dishwater-blonde dreadlocks are tucked behind her ears. I don’t move from the sink. She sighs, and I can see the definition of her collarbones. “Get out here.” I finish rubbing the soap into my palms calmly, saying nothing, then rinse, moving my right hand over my left exactly ten times. Sienna is getting considerably more tense. Done. I turn around from the cracked porcelain basin at an exact ninety-degree angle, balancing on the balls of my feet like a soldier readying herself for the coming war.

There once was a woman, the daughter of a miller, who lived in a small, peaceful kingdom, whose father wished her to marry. The woman, who was kind and heartfelt and only sought to please those around her, agreed to her father’s bidding.

I tug the scrubs tighter around my ribs, trying to secure them against my skin. I wasn’t able to eat lunch today. I had just gotten out of the shower, braided hair still wet, and the food was chicken with curry spices and okra, a chaotic meal, a slimy one, swamp-sludge green and sizzled-protein brown on the same plate. I couldn’t force myself to touch it. So I sat at a table with the anorexic ones, ribs jabbing through their robes like weapons caught between their lungs, and the depressed ones, slumped over their meals, empty eyes, blank, tired faces, pairing morning Zoloft in little plastic dixie cups with their ham on rye. It was not my usual table. I deliberated. I shuddered. I didn’t sit down until I had rubbed it down with the edge of a napkin, until the smell was gone, the tiny bits of food and spittle were no more. I could feel their stares like razors on my skin, bones showing through their eyes, drugs forgotten in the face of the new, more interesting robotics show I was providing.
You know you’ve hit rock bottom when your actions draw the attentions of the severely mentally ill. When you’re sitting at a table with those that society considers to be broken. When you, yourself, are both of these things in your own head.

The woman was renowned throughout the land for her weaving, which was said to be fit to make clothes for the fairies, it was so beautiful. Her tapestries, displayed throughout the small village, drew the attention of a wandering prince, who was taken instantly by the delicate young woman whose fingers could weave magic. He asked her, courteously, for her hand in marriage. Feeling apprehensive, the young miller’s daughter accepted, and on the prince’s day of departure, she rode with him to the castle from which he ruled the kingdom.

There are exactly sixteen chairs here today, placed in a circle that is bulging at one end, as though it’s been stretched by stories. The other girls sit with me, either slumped in various positions of solitude or sitting straight with ramrod posture, looking expectantly at Carlos, our group leader for today. None of the chairs are empty. You are either here or you are not.
Sienna is sitting next to me, her eyes following something in the air that I can’t see. She’s focusing on it so intently that her fingers are twitching in her lap, tracing a definitive pattern. The doctors put her on Thorazine two weeks ago, but she’s still adjusting. At least she’s better than when they brought her in screaming, drugged out of her mind on top of the schizophrenia, scratching at her arms, crying for the doctors to please let her go, please get rid of the bugs that were crawling on top and underneath her skin and in her hair, biting her, hurting her. They treated her for drugs. Heroin, mostly, which she had taken so that she could tell herself it was just the chemicals rushing through her bloodstream. A touch of mary jane and spice, which she had smoked constantly to rid her head of the voices. Then they treated her WITH drugs for the voices that made her feel she NEEDED drugs. This place is so strange. It’s both the calmest and most chaotic location you could ever be in, all at the same time.

The miller’s daughter was thrilled that a girl as humble as she had attracted the attention of the prince, but what she did not know was that the prince held darkness in his heart, for what he desired most was not love, but gold.

“Liana?” Carlos is smiling, expectant. He never gives up on me, which is nice at times. And at other times, incredibly, incessantly annoying. “Liana? Would you mind sharing with us how you feel today?”
I never said anything the first three days I was here. I just sat there, staring at the floor, letting their words thud into my uncaring ears until they turned away. I am past that now.
“I feel tired.”
“And?” Carlos is smiling, but he doesn’t let me slack off, either.
“And I feel sick.”
“Don’t we all,” crows one of the girls on the other edge of the circle. Amelia, with her bright red corkscrew curls and her baggy blue sweatshirt, no strings. She is days away from getting released. I’ll miss her. I look at her, now. She winks at me.
Carlos looks concerned. “Why do you feel sick?”
I cross my arms defensively. “I feel dirty.”
Carlos’s face melds into a look of understanding. “How many times have you washed today, Liana?”
“Is that really any of your problem?” I snarl. One of the orderlies by the door looks up. I glare at him. He looks back down again.
“No, Liana, but it is your problem.” Carlos may be a happy-go-lucky kind of guy, but his remarks really hit home sometimes. Nevertheless, he has a point. I sigh irritably.
“Liana?” Carlos is NOT going to let this go.
“Five times. I’ve washed five times today, and I took a shower this morning.”
“Does that feel like enough?”
For the first time during the session, I look him in the eye. “Not nearly.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Amelia nod at me, her normally cheery face now serious. We joke around, we giggle, we act for each other and towards each other. But we’re all here for a reason.

The first day, the prince took the miller’s daughter into a cell filled with fibers of all kinds. “Spin this into gold and fill the room, if the stories of your talent are true,” said the prince. “If you fail, I will have you hanged.” He left, locking the door behind him, and the miller’s daughter, who could see no hope, cradled her face in her gentle hands and wept.

After group, it’s visiting hours. Only family members allowed. Only two per table at a time. Show your ID to get in. It’s exhausting for me to sit there and wait, but even more exhausting for my brother to work his way through the wall of security in order to reach me. But once he’s there, he always greets me with a toothy smirk and deck of cards. “Hey, girl. What’s new?”
“Absolutely nothing.” I yawn. He pouts. “Aw, don’t be like that.”
I ignore him. “Where’re Mum and Dad?”
His smile falters. “Mum had a late shift last night and Dad is...he’s at...he’s at a business meeting.” His eyes beg me not to say anything, so I don’t, picking up the cards instead. “Gin rummy? I’ll kick your sorry butt.”

Just when the miller’s daughter thought all chance of survival was gone, the clocktower struck midnight, and in her cell there appeared a tiny man, looking to be a fairy, who smiled cheekily at her. “What might be the problem, Miss?”
“I am told I must weave this straw into gold. I cannot, and because of this, I must die.”
“Ah, but there’s no need for that, Lass. I’ll be happy to give you anything ye like, for a price. What shall ye give me if I turn these fibers into precious metals?”
The miller’s daughter was caught up in a cloud of hope. “I shall give you the necklace that rests around my neck.” And so the little man took the necklace, and lo and behold, there was a POOF and a POP and a CRACK, and the spindle began to work of its own accord, and by the morning, the room was full to the brim with gold and the little man had gone away.

One-on-one therapy. Dr. Atalanta. She drums her manicured fingers on her desk. I sit on the couch, on the one replaceable blanket she always makes sure to reserve for me and only me. “How are you feeling, Liana?”
“Better.”
“But…?”
“But not perfect.”
She looks at her notepad. “Well, I see you’ve gone from washing your hands thirty-five times a day to washing them, on average, fifteen times…” She looks up, glasses catching the light from the gauzy lamp in the corner. “There’s still room for improvement, but you’re nearly there. Do you feel as though your medication is taking effect?”
They have me on Prozac and Abilify, fifty milligrams in the morning and sometimes, if it’s been a particularly bad day and the numbers and the rituals and the water and the dirt threaten to drown my head and force me awake, twenty-five milligrams in the evening.
Dr. Atalanta looks at me. “Let’s talk about numbers.” I tense instinctively. I hate this part. Hate it.
“Are you still troubled by things in groups of…”
“In groups of - of six, yes, there’s no need for you to say it,” I snap.
“You’re allowing yourself to say the word, though!” Dr. Atalanta looks pleased. “That’s amazing progress!” I just slump. Argh.

The prince was delighted to find the room filled with gold, and he hugged the miller’s daughter, praising her, and that night, there was a celebratory feast that lasted hours. But again, when the hour grew late, the prince took the miller’s daughter to an even bigger cell, filled again with straw, and told her to weave it into gold, if she valued her life. She wept bitterly, for she wished the prince to love her for her, not for what she could do, and she could not weave straw into gold, however hard she tried. But again, the little man came, jauntily asking payment in return for his services. This time, she gave him the ring on her finger, and again when morning came, the room was filled stem to stern with gold and all was well.

Sienna is lying on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. I meticulously turn the pages of my book, straightening bent corner and rubbing fraying edges. Sienna looks at me.
“Liana?” She murmurs.
“Yes?” I whisper. I don’t want to startle her.
“Just wondering,” she says sleepily. “Just wondering if there’s a word in your book for someone who knows they know the truth but pretend that they don’t.”

The third night that she was locked in the cell, the miller’s daughter grew angry. She kicked at the straw and at the walls, cursing the prince for wooing her and cursing herself for believing him. Again, the little man came, and when he had finished weaving the straw in precious gold, he turned to her where she had slumped in a corner, crying.
“Why do you cry, young one?”
“I have lost any chance at happiness I once had. I miss my father’s house. I miss my village. Most of all, I miss my own free will.”
“That can easily be remedied. I have woven gold for you one last time. Therefore, I ask only for one more payment.”
“But I have nothing left to give you,” wondered the miller’s daughter, surprised.
“Then grant me one thing in future,” said the little man, his smile twisting into a grin.
“Anything, for you have saved me a grave fate, surely,” murmured the miller’s daughter.
The man’s grin widened, and inside his joyful mouth and plump face, his teeth were blackened and cracked. “I ask for nothing much now. Just in the future. I want your firstborn child.”

“I feel like there’s always a little man in my head,” I tell Dr. Atalanta. “A little man who tells me what I can and can’t do. And he asks me for more and more and more until I feel like I want to kill him, but I can’t, because we’re the same person.”
Dr. Atalanta raises her eyebrow at me. I wish I hadn’t been so bold. Any talk of suicide in this place will get you a shot of sedatives and a first-class ticket to spending another three weeks here. I try to remedy what I’ve let slip.
“I mean, I feel like I’m out of control. Which is weird, because all I want...is control,” I finish, my eyebrows furrowing. To my surprise, Dr. Atalanta smiles.
“You can go to dinner, Liana,” she says gently. “We’ve made good progress here today.”

The miller’s daughter agreed. The thought of a child was far in her future, and she was too young to know what she had signed herself up for. A year passed, the miller’s daughter married the prince, and soon, she bloomed with the promise of a baby. And yet, although happiness and celebration were in the air, she cried late at night, pressing her face to the pillow so the prince would not hear her weakness, for she knew now the full, aching, accidental horror of what she had done.

I sit at a table with Sienna and Amelia. Amelia is picking at her food, playing with her fork betwixt her agile fingers. It isn’t like her. “What’s wrong.”
She smiles falteringly. “I’m going home tomorrow morning. I’m just nervous. I haven’t seen my mom or my stepdad in weeks…” Amelia’s eyes, usually light and dancing merrily, or dark and blank and filled with tears, are somewhere in between, somewhere stormy and brooding, wondering. “What if they’ve forgotten? Or what if I forget, and I do something stupid again?”
Amelia is here because she walked into the middle of the rainy highway during a manic episode, when she felt so invincible that she knew nothing could touch her, throwing her arms to the sky, singing in her beautiful Celtic voice at the top of her lungs, and dodging honking vehicles while her mother screamed through the landline at the 911 emergency dispatcher. “You’re better now. It’s a long road, but you’ll be okay. You’ll get through it.”
Amelia wrinkles her freckled nose in a positively adorable, rabbitlike fashion. “NOW you sound like Dr. Atalanta.”
I grin at her as, under the table, I rub my hands over one another in the cleansing motion I’m so accustomed to by now, trying to rid myself of the feeling that deep inside my mind, something is unclean, something is wrong.

On the day of the baby’s birth, after hours of pain and of blood and of the feeling that her very bones would come apart altogether, the miller’s daughter gave birth to a beautiful baby girl with a song in her cries and curiosity in her sapphire-blue eyes. The mother held her daughter tightly. She wouldn’t let anyone else touch her, barely releasing her child to let the nursemaids clean her and wrap her in warm blankets. Her prince was at the banquet, drinking away the barrels of ale with his friends, and shakily, she asked for time alone. Her nursemaids left, and as the door to the chamber clicked shut, the little man appeared before her, legs crossed jauntily and arms waving gleefully. “Time’s up, little daughter. Time to give me what you promised!”
“I beg thee, give me time. She is my only child. Give me one more chance,” the woman begged him, tearfully. The little man only chuckled at her grief, but nodded nonetheless. “There you have it, woman. Ye can keep thy babe if, and only if, at the end of three days which I grant you, ye can guess my name.” He went away laughing, leaving the miller’s daughter to her tears, for she knew that such a task could prove impossible.

I am standing in front of the sink. My hands are shaking, my eyes are blurry. You can do this. My heart is pounding like an Olympic runner, fit to escape my chest. I stare at the porcelain, the graceful curve of the chrome faucet, the dregs of water pooled, shining, around the drain. Walk away. Ignore yourself. I stop, count to three, and on three, I whirl, bolting away from the bathroom, from the faucet, from my own head. And though I feel as though the ceiling should cave, feel as though the ground should crack and swallow me like squirming pill, it doesn’t, and I do not fall.

The miller’s daughter thought and thought and thought. Andrew? Albert? Billy? Zebediah? What could this man’s name be? She barely ate for two and half days, only stopping to nurse her daughter, tenderly brushing the beginnings of blonde hair from her tiny forehead. On the third night, when she fell into a fitful sleep, she dreamt, a welcome escape. Yet this dream proved to be even more helpful than she could have anticipated, for in it, as she tossed and turned, she saw a vision: the little man danced and danced around a merrily crackling fire, singing his victory.
Surely, in this, I certainly ‘ave won,
for this dame is a foolish one
I take the pot, I win this game,
for Rumpelstiltskin is my name!
When the miller’s daughter awoke, there was serenity in her heart and determination in her eye. She knew what she had to do.

I walk into our room, breathless, cheeks flushed, and Sienna looks up at me, shocked. “Liana? You alright?” I simply look at her, and a wild, placid smile replaces the adrenalized terror on my face. “I’m so alright, Sienna. More than alright. I’m wonderful.”

Morning and afternoon came and went. The miller’s daughter secluded herself and her child in her room, preparing for the night. As evening crept over the hills, she wrapped a scarf over her head and secured her little girl in her cloak, creeping around the battlements, down the hills, and into the countryside, away from the castle. As she reached the peak of a hill, a collection of sparks rose, forming the shape of the little man. “Your time has come,” he cackled. “Guess my name or give me the babe without protest.”
The miller’s daughter feigned confusion. “Is it, perhaps, Arthur?”
“Nope!” exclaimed the little man.
“Is it...Ezekiel?”
“Never!” he squeaked gleefully.
The miller’s daughter threw back her scarf and looked him dead in the eye. “Of course, be it not. For your name...is Rumpelstiltskin!”
There was a beat of dead silence as his name echoed throughout the very air.
Then there was a roar, and the little man grew redder and redder, screaming gibberish at her, until POP! He vanished into the air, exploding in a burst of fireworks. “And that,” said the miller’s daughter softly, “rids me of him.”

My hands tremble as I tuck my toothbrush and an extra pack of sanitary wipes into the leftmost pocket of my backpack. Sienna looks on, peaceful and lucid for once, smiling tearfully as I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Remember me, okay?”
I hesitate, willing myself past the old anxiety, and then I hug her, wrapping her in a tight embrace. “Of course. Always.” She laughs shakily and gives me a tearful pat on the back, then waves me out the door. “Don’t be a stranger, Liana.” I grin. “Never.” She laughs, and I walk down the hallway, with its flickering lights and its strange, starched scent, and the scratches in the walls that I recognize like the marks on my own skin.
I still count every other purple tile as I walk through this hospital, and I still have extra tissues and hand sanitizer in my backpack for when I need them, but I am who I am because of who I am, and I will manage, because what I am does not define me. Does not define any of us. It is all any of us are able to do.
Dr. Atalanta meets me at the steps. “Ready?” I nod, unable to speak. The air out here, which I thought to be suffocating once, to be stuffy and dirty and tasting of soot, is strangely pure, infused with sunlight and the scent of a coming rain. One day at a time, the wind whispers through me, tousling my hair. “Let’s go.”
As I walk down the steps (there are six of them. I do an extra little hop at the bottom just to fix that) I turn and wave at the brick building. I’m a part of it now. It’s a part of me. But I’m made up of so many parts, all unique, all turning and crying and laughing and flying and falling together, that one more makes only a small, final difference.

The miller’s daughter walked up the hill. She felt as though she could fly, could float, could swim seas and jumps chasms. She was free. She could go anywhere.
But first, she tucked her daughter safely into the scarf she had wrapped around her chest, securing her to her mother. Looking into her baby’s sleeping face, she sighed, finally at peace. “I love you, Liana,” she whispered, looking skyward. “Don’t let that ever change.”
And as the sun rose over the hills, and the farms, and the high stone walls, both mother and child walked forward until their silhouettes vanished over the crest of the hill.