Anzi stared blankly at the ceiling, her arms draped heavily on the bed by her side. The reddened skin by her eyes burned as fresh tears coursed down the path laid by tears of the past hour. Her head felt stuffed with cotton-wool, which she didn’t mind. It helped muffle the ruckus of self-hatred in her mind.

She had snapped. In front of the entire morning discourse group. She had snapped, and the words had poured from her mouth, unencumbered, unrelenting, brutal. A small part of her had watched in horror and disbelief, curling up with shame, shrinking into itself. The entire congregation had stared at her, open mouthed, silent, bewildered.

The spew of rage, desperation and hatred had gone on. She had ranted about the hypocrisy of each and every one of them. She had raved about the repression they were under, and the stupidity of the Intacta members to believe that theirs was a place of freedom and authenticity. She had fumed about the judgemental, hate-mongering ways of the tribe. All while the entire congregation sat in frozen silence.

Except for Liot. She saw him, out of the corner of her eye, and it registered in another tiny, observing bit of her that was free from the tsunami of intense emotions. Liot had seemed to understand. Whereas the rest of those present seemed completely flabbergasted ad horrified by her onslaught of accusations, Liot had seemed thoughtful. She thought she detected sympathy in his expression. Perhaps he understood what she was saying. What she meant. Her desperation, her wish to be heard, to be seen.

The memories of the faces of the rest of the commune swam back into focus. She shut her eyes, jostling out tears that had welled up. Her cheeks and neck burned with shame. A hollow sensation blossomed in her gut.

She had screwed up, and she didn’t know if there was any way to fix it this time. She thought back to the comment that had broken her, pushed her just a pip past her threshold. It seemed so small now, so insignificant. So far from being a valid reason for her to have done what she had done. Her group leader had commented that she needed Anzi to do more to ensure the quality of her work. A normal comment to others, perhaps. But the words had sliced straight into a raw nerve. White hot shame that surged within her, morphing to anger in an instant.

The simple remark had broken through the wall she had built to contain and suppress the perpetual sense of shame within. The voices in her head had risen to a fever pitch.

Something is wrong with you. You’re a failure. You’re defective. You can’t do anything right. You’re useless. Her shame, cloaked in anger, had torn through the cracks and erupted, implacable.

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She kept her eyes shut, trying to block out the memory. She was a shell of herself. A weak, fragile mimic of a person. Her emotions were her masters and she danced to their tunes. Her mind dredged up memories of a happier time. When she had been determinedly cheerful, shoving her pain deep down within. She had brimmed with hope and positivity. She had thought of the Intacta as a new home for her. A place she could finally belong. A home with people who seemed kind and eager to take care of her. A safe space where no one would hurt her.

But she was like a porcelain doll. Her hopes and bravado formed a fragile shell that contained a quivering mess of pain and fury.

When she was younger, the Intacta members had understanding during her outbursts. Her vitriol escaped at times, enveloping those within its path. They hugged her, reassured her, spoke to her in gentle tones. But as the years passed and her emotional state did not stabilise, their patience had run dry.

Their words became sharper. Their tone took on a cruel, scathing edge. And Anzi’s nerves grew tauter. A well-timed smirk could send her into shambles. Before she knew it, she was once again fully alone, in a commune of people. Her home was now poisoned. By her own twisted essence.

Resignation seeped in, mixing with the pain of her shame. It was an endless cycle. Pulling herself together, rebuilding her person, reaching out, interacting, baring her sensitive and taut soul. Then snapping, bursting, bitter resentment gushing forth, her true self showing.

This was the fourth group that she had messed things up with in just the past year. She was running out of groups she could be placed in. An acid pool of shame bubbled within.

Poor, crazy, raging girl. The one people whispered about. Pitied. Disdained.

She couldn’t show her face. She would never talk to anyone else again, she decided, not for anything unnecessary. That was her mistake. Thinking that she could have friendships, that she could socialise, at all. That she could have what normal people had. She would do things alone, keep to herself, keep herself safe from any possibility of rejection or hurt. Then she would no longer have breakdowns like that.

She could turn her feelings off. She was sure of it. Perhaps, then, she’d be able to face the humiliation of her meltdown. Yet again. She could shut down, keep her walls up. Not give a damn about what any of them thought about her.

Her mind flitted once again to the horrified looks on the others, and the acidic shame within spewed forth once again.

A dull throbbing of contempt and hatred for the Intacta resurfaced. Welcoming, accepting, she thought bitterly. My ass. She knew it was her guilt, her own shame that had magnified her group leader’s comment a hundredfold. The leader might not have meant it as an insult. But it hurt to accept that. The shame was too much to bear.

She turned her mind to the task of building up walls in her mind. Ones that she hoped would finally hold. Walls that could seal her off from the outside world.