The room looked cheerful, as much as one in a mental institution would be: sunflowers on the wallpaper and sheets the color of a canary. It resembled a first-class spa, and it ought to at those prices. Her insurance would have covered it, no doubt, as care for the psyche is no longer considered an elective like cosmetic surgery.

Even though her insurance would cover her stay, Alicia would still pay for it herself. She was so afraid of her job finding out about her that she never submitted any bills. It was early in her career, and she was on her way up. So no one at her place of work knew about her therapy sessions. Her cover? Ongoing dental problems that forced her absence from work a couple hours each week.

Maybe she was being too cautious. Her company is known for its forward thinking and innovative concepts. While leading in research concerning green, energy-efficient technology, engineering, and biological study, it also is known for espousing charitable causes, for advocating the rights of the depraved and powerless. But weakness in the public is one thing; weakness in the warrior is another beast all together.

So, she slinked in and out of the shrink's office. She knew that she needed to be there, and deep down, she knew why. She had known all her life and spent much of it running from the problem. Her body would not move. Every gesture felt weighted and heavy. Even breathing required the power of will. Worst of all, she couldn't answer the phone. The messages on voicemail and kept piling up until the notification badge read some horrible number. And she even still managed to keep her job. Unhappiness in the throes of the modern world is common, but it was something to be upset about in her case.

Her therapist acknowledged the demands of her career, which was only part of it. They both knew that there was more than meets the eye. Every Monday and Thursday, he would sit in his big comfy swivel-back chair, with her sprawled across the chaise lounge, and nod as she cried through half a box of tissues. Sometimes Alicia forgot that he was even there, as she often left reality behind in the waiting room and began to speak her fantasies into the airwaves: how she wished all of her co-workers would die and leave her alone at last, or how she wished she could fall asleep and never wake up.

Finally, he spoke. "Personally, I don't care for ultimatums. Professionally, however, I feel that I have no choice but to tell you that unless you agree to be hospitalized, I will be forced to commit you myself."

Alicia stared at him for a moment, then suddenly laughed. "You're joking, right?"

He shook his head. "I couldn't be more serious. For three months, I've listened to you fantasize about death as if it were some kind of romantic getaway. That is alarming."

"Of course it's supposed to be alarming. Like you said, I am fantasizing. 'Free-associating' would be the better term, and that's what you are supposed to do in the therapist's office, right? Free-associate?"

He leaned back in his chair. "Your fantasies are the key to your subconscious. And your subconscious obviously wants to die."

Alicia face-palmed. "But I can't go to a hospital," she groaned with frustration. "I've got a conference at the end of the week, and I have three articles to complete by the end of the month."

To her surprise, he said, "Tell you what: if you promise to check yourself in voluntarily, you can leave whenever you want."

"What kind of place is it?"

"It's a place outside of town, but it is very nice. Exclusive, quiet, and beautiful grounds."

"And what will be expected of me when I get there?"

"Do whatever you want. Read. Rest. Wander around the gardens. We've come a long way since The Viper Pit."

"But it's still the damn looney bin. Won't there be a lot of freaks and wierdos there?"

He smiled. "Oh, come now. You ought to know better than that. Wealthy people are never crazy. They are just eccentric. And it should be a healthy change for you, after being surrounded by stress all day. Maybe it would help you more if you thought of it this way: think of your brain as the Falcari you drive—it is a world-class instrument when it is working right. But it is highly temperamental, and sometimes needs a good tune-up. You wouldn't take your car to Joe, the mechanic down the way, would you? You'd take it to the Falcari shop and let the professionals tinker away. Let's let the professionals look at you."

Oh, how well he knew her. It was not for nothing that out of all the places to settle, she settled in the capital city of Corneria. It was no surprise, either, that she wouldn't settle for any less than a first-rate education. She knew the truth, though: snobbery was a part of her personality. She wanted—no, she needed the best of the best. It was not necessarily out of a sense of entitlement, but more so a habit for survival. For as far as she could remember back, she had always been much too sensitive to her surroundings. Dirt and squalor made her physically sick, even if it were on television. If money could not buy happiness, then it could definitely buy symmetry. With a credit card as her weapon, she could manipulate the surface of things—trade harmony for disorder, equilibrium for malconformation.

She took solace in the philosophy of beauty. She hoped that by fooling her visual senses, she could fool her mind as well; and it was quite often a success. More so, she learned to fool everyone else by letting her possessions speak for her. As in: "Look how successful I am! I own a Falcari!" or "Look at my Crewkerne pea coat! How well my life must fit me!"

So, the Falcari analogy hit home. Perhaps that is exactly what she needed—a little fine-tuning in the careful hands of the experts. "How much would three days cost me?" Alicia asked, and her therapist quoted an outrageous sum. And yet, the price is what made her decide. She figured that anything that cost that much must be the best. Plus, it had to be beautiful, in a thick-wall-against-the-world kind of way that kept the ugliness from seeping in.

Alicia claimed a death in the family and took three days off from work. It felt good to drive there with the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows. The only thing that really bothered her was how she had packed: hastily, at a moment's notice, and in considerable confusion. What does one wear to the crazy house? Famed designer Sergio Ghicci usually had something to say on everything, but he was silent on this one.

The sign to Woodcrest Estate was so discreet that she had almost missed it. The gravel road she made a quick right on was marked "Private Access Only." Alicia liked the sound of that. At the end of the bougainvillea-lined gravel path was a large neo-classically styled building, in front of which, in the circular driveway, grew the largest wisteria tree she'd ever seen in her life. A mob of attendants came out to greet her. She was relieved to see that, rather than institution white, they were wearing scrubs that were a gentle shade of beige, which reminded her of a 100mg tablet of Sertraline. One took her bags, the other took her car, and a third, a tall, older, practician-looking Cervid lady with good teeth, smiled pleasantly and held out her hand. "Welcome to Woodcrest Estate," she said, "Come, let us get you settled in."

Alicia followed her into the cozy lobby which was decorated with tufted leather and flowers. Fresh red roses, her favorite. She stopped next to an arrangement and inhaled.

The woman said, "I see you are a fan of roses."

Alicia nodded.

"We can have someone send some to your room if you'd like."

Alicia smiled gently. She wasn't ready to drop her guard just yet, though from what she has seen, the place just might be legit.

Twenty minutes later, Alicia was sitting in the woman's office having tea and finger sandwiches. She discussed the rules. All two of them. "You must meet with the therapist daily, and you must keep a journal." Neither one sounded demanding, but then came the kicker: "I hope you will be okay on your own for the night. Your roommate should be her tomorrow."

Huh? A roommate? What roommate? Alicia has never had a roommate in her life, not even when she was attending university, and she didn't plan on starting now. Roommates could be dirty and nasty and ugly, and they couldn't be controlled, not even with a credit card. Softly, emphatically, Alicia explained that she preferred to be alone, and she didn't mind paying a premium for her own room. The woman smiled and shook her head. "I apologize, my dear, but everyone here at Woodcrest Estate is expected to have a roommate. It is considered therapeutic."

She mistook Alicia's silence for acquiescence and offered to show her room to her. Alicia couldn't help but to be impressed by the vaulted ceiling, the bay window, and the vase of Casablanca lilies left on the bedside table. The sun was starting to set, and the room glowed yellow and white. It wasn't until she sat down on the window seat to look at the view that she noticed the steel grating over the outside of the windows.

"So, the windows don't open?" Alicia asked.

"They do, but you need a key," the woman answered.

"Speaking of which, I haven't gotten my room key yet."

"You don't need one," the woman said. "The staff will lock things up at night. So you don't have to worry about a thing."

"You mean they are going to lock me up at night."

"Technically, yes, but that is merely for your protection."

Alicia wanted to be left alone, so she dropped it. She thanked the woman for her help and told her that she wanted to stroll around the grounds.

"Just to let you know, the gardens close at dusk."

She left. Alicia rifled through her suitcase for her grey cable-knit hoodie, and then headed outside. Part of her was already starting to panic at the thought of being locked in her room at night, but she breathed easier once she was outside. The sun was beginning to set extraordinarily by then, so she sat down in a thick patch of grass and rolled onto her back. The heavens were painting with watercolor, and beauty, as always, enchanted her. She forgot who she was, where she was, and how she got there. It wasn't until she noticed the pale waning crescent moon in the sky that she remembered that she had to be in at sunset. Which meant that she ought to get up and get going.

Her body resisted the thought. You are not bound by those rules, she told herself. They are strictly intended for the mentally ill. You, Alicia Cimmaron are most undoubtedly, categorically not mentally ill. How could she be? She was valedictorian in high school, and graduated from Silverstone with honors. How could she be crazy? Crazy people were weird. When they spoke, their words turned on them. Alicia used words as weapons, on the other hand. To look at her, it would never occur to anyone that she spent half the time holding back tears, and the other half engulfed in them. Even so, that wasn't mental illness. That was just bona fide misery. The wrong career, a failed marriage, and chronic insomnia…

Alicia ran back towards the building, stumbling over the taller patches of grass. She paused outside of the lobby to smooth her hair out of her eyes and to freshen the crease in her pants. More proof that she was sane, she thought. Crazies are frayed at the edges. She needn't have bothered: no one was there to see her. Maybe at dinner. She had no interest in food. It wasn't the food itself, per se, but the mere moil of selecting the food out, cutting it up, and lifting the food fork to mouth, fork to mouth, over and over. Life was already full of mundane repetition, like the endless road noise of sucking in oxygen and blowing out carbon dioxide, or pumping blood. Each breath, each beat. It seemed like such a waste of time. Air was air. Blood was blood. And no matter what you eat for dinner, it will always end up as shit.

When she got to her room, the air was rich and fragrant, she realized. The lilies had been replaced by an amphora of fresh roses. They were so beautiful that she knew nothing bad would ever happen in their presence. She laid down and closed her eyes…

Nine hours later, Alicia awoke to the sound of knocking on her door, reminding her, "Therapy in five minutes!" She kicked herself free of her sheets and rushed to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, ran a comb through her hair, and put on a pair of neatly pressed jeans.

When she opened the door, an attendant was there, waiting to escort her. "You will like Dr. Hamm," he said as he led her down a series of hallways. "He is one of the best." Best? Not the term Alicia would have used to describe him. Everything about the middle-aged canid man was grey: from his snagged and rumpled cardigan, to the circles beneath his eyes, to the salt-and-pepper hair combed carefully across his head. Even his voice sounded grey when he told her to sit down, they were going to take some tests. He then asked her to finish some statements with the very first word to pop into her head.

Q. "If I could be anything, I would be…"

A. "Invisible."

Q. "If I could do anything I wanted, I would…"

A. "Disappear."

Admittedly, Alicia was actually enjoying herself. She has always enjoyed taking tests. Not for the sake of the test itself, but for the victory of the good grade afterward. So when she asked Dr. Hamm how she did, she expected what she had heard for most of her life: praise. Instead, he said: "These aren't really that kind of test. They are not like college entrance exams."

Bullshit, she thought. Everything, up to and including life, was exactly like college entrance exams. You either scored well or you didn't. But the question she really wanted to ask him was, "Do you know what's wrong with me?" The words were tugging at the tip of her tongue, but she could not set them free. Seven simple words, but she feared the following silence that would stretch from here to infinity. Or worse yet, he would actually have an answer.

Dr. Hamm stood up and clapped her on her back and said, "I know what you need." Alicia looked at him expectantly. "A nice hot cup of soup."

She followed him through the labyrinth of hallways to the dining room, where he left her. There was a dozen or so people gathered there, mostly sitting at one table. At first, Alicia figured that they might be staff. They looked decidedly normal to her: laughing, chatting, and eating food. But upon closer inspection, she noticed that there was a woman savaging her steak, sawing at it ferociously, as if it were still alive. A fat young man in khaki shorts was jiggling all over; legs, arms, and double-chins independently a-tremble. And she noticed, with a shudder, that three or four of the rest of them were wiping their mouths to dislodge copious amounts of slobber.

Grabbing her journal, Alicia retraced her steps back towards the gardens. She flopped down and began to sketch. Nothing was as she remembered it. The clouds were so fine and lithe the day before, but now they were thick and grey, obscuring the sun. Drops began to splash down on her page. The sky had turned on her: it was no longer shelter. Zipping up her hoodie, she rose to her feet.

She returned to her room thoroughly wet and longing for her roses. But something was standing in her way—a figure, shaped like a person enough until it turned around. Alicia gasped. Her face was a patchwork of scarlet and white, shiny in some spots, mottled in others, and half covered in bloody bandages. Her left arm was in a cast held up by a sling, and her right was still fair. She looked at Alicia and turned away.

Alicia cursed herself for that embarrassing gasp; she has always tried to keep her feelings under wraps. Holding out her hand, she said, "You must be my new roommate." She hoped that her smile would hide her trembles. Part of her was downright scared, the other part was enraged. Not at this poor woman, but at the institution. She should have been told about this beforehand.

The woman mumbled her name and got into bed. Her face was hidden by her pillow, but Alicia could tell by the shuddering of her shoulders that she was crying. Alicia thought longingly of the garden she had just left, the wide-open expanse that made no demands on her. Fighting the urge to throw open the door and leave, Alicia crossed the room and stood over the bed.

"I'm sorry, did you say something?"

"I wish I were invisible…" a quavering voice said. "I wish I could disappear…"

Alicia was utterly disturbed. She recognized that language. It was the language of suffering, and she knew it all too well. They were one and the same, the girl and she. The only difference were that Alicia's scars were on the inside, where they didn't show.

The intuitive aversion to the woman's appearance was usurped by feelings of empathy, and surprisingly, Alicia reached down and gathered the woman in her arms. At first, the woman tried to pull away, but Alicia hushed her and stroked her hair.

Her hair was long, auburn, and healthy, luxurious even, in Alicia's hands. She pondered the irony at the ornamentation: of what possible use was such hair to her now? Beauty, true beauty, is never wasted. In fact, her hair was all the more gorgeous now that it was contrasting her homely appearance.

And then it dawned on her: Alicia had been going about this all wrong. It was futile to try to deny the existence of ugliness, be it around her or within her. There existed light, there existed monsters, and there must have been a purpose for that. Without darkness, how could we ever hope to understand the light?

Alicia started to weep. True beauty, she realized, was not the absence of ugliness, but the embracing of it. And she knew then what she had been refusing all along: she was mentally ill.

Alicia welcomed the monster. She gave it a home.

It was April 22. She remembers the day, because every year, Alicia sends an anonymous card to Angie, for that was the young woman's name. A simple card, with only two words printed on it: "Thank you." She sends it anonymously because she doesn't have the words to explain. She just knows that her greatest victories have always been surrenders.