"That's a serious matter, Frida," the therapist said, her brow furrowed in concern. "If this continues, you might actually need to see a psychiatrist."
Frida shook her head firmly. "No, I can handle it," she insisted.
The therapist's gaze sharpened. "You could hurt him..." she warned, scribbling notes in her folder. "Tell me about her—your other personality."
Frida hesitated, the weight of her secrets pressing heavily on her chest. She couldn't risk exposing Laz or the full truth. It was too dangerous. This wasn't just therapy; it was like writing in a private diary, one meant to keep the therapist out of harm's way.
"Her name is Shelly," Frida began softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Laz and I... we buried her alive in a grave we dug in the backyard of our old house."
The therapist paused, pouring tea into a cup with slightly trembling hands.
