“Oh jeez. They’re coming,” he whispers. “Good posture.”

Her claws tap on the floor. “Really?” It sounds like she wants to argue with him. I’m surprised that she doesn’t, isn’t. I think she’s scared.

Soft, gentle footsteps cross the hall. Why is she scared? And where have I heard those before?

A vague shape comes into my peripheral vision. I recognize that vague shape.

Oh my God. It’s fucking Lamzy.

I don’t remember who that is.

I wish I was you.

Dr. Lamzy Divey (if we have to hear that name one more time I am certain we are going to dissolve into a fine mist of rage) is the lead doctor on our floor. We barely see them, except for when things are very wrong.

Such as when we were dating them.

Marigold is right; Dr. Process isn't really any kind of authority figure. He doesn't control when we eat, what we eat, how we exercise, the drugs we take or when we take them. He just does the paperwork that gets funneled into the hands of people like Fucking Lamzy, who then micromanage every aspect of my recovery until I break down.

And I hate everything about them. I hate how they hold themself, tight and constricted, like a spring ready to bounce. I hate their perfect posture, the way their feet make barely any noise as they cross the floor. I hate how restrained they are in every aspect, how they make themself as small as possible. I hate how much better they are at their vow of silence – I tried, for a while, after all the bad shit that happened to me, but I just can’t shut up. But nothing bad ever happens to them because everyone loves them.

And I especially hate their name.

And I hate how much they’re just a better, cuter version of me.