BEATRICE'S POV
The bathroom tile is cold against my forehead.
I do not remember how I got here. One minute I was standing in the corridor watching a doctor I did not hire wheel Theodore into a room I did not choose, and the next minute I am kneeling on the floor of a staff bathroom three corridors away with my hand pressed over my mouth and my body shaking in a way my body is not supposed to shake.
The sob comes out through my fingers anyway.
Small. Ugly. The kind of sound I have not made since I was twelve years old and locked myself in the pantry after my father told me I should not have been born. I press my palm harder against my mouth. It does not help. Another sob gets through. Then another. My face is wet. My throat is burning.
I was supposed to hate him.
