When the carriage with my parents returns, I have already managed to dig a small enough hole for my sister to lie in. My feet and the bottom of my nightgown are covered in mud and dirt, as I grasp the shovel and dig deeper. My sister's corpse lies next to the hole, swaddled tightly in her favorite blanket. The carriage halts to a complete stop and my mother unceremoniously exits, running towards me at full speed. But for now, my resolve remains, and I keep digging even as she shouts my name. Father follows closely behind, silently observing the situation. He is the first one to realize what's happening. I make the mistake of looking into his eyes and the shovel clatters to the ground. His eyes hold no anger or grief. All I see is pity.  

Mother tackles me to the ground. She is a now nothing but a being of pure fury. She slaps me and starts screaming abusive words and insults until her throat is sore. This time however, I don't cry or even try to defend myself. I simply lie there and take it, every insult just sounding like muffled nonsense and every hit feeling like nothing. One of our servants pulls her off of me as she continues to try and pounce on me. I turn my gaze to the blue sky above as father runs over and helps me sit up. He grasps my face in his hands and strokes my hair. “You'll be alright, Babygirl. I'll make sure you get better.” He says, his words firm and final.  

The next morning, my bags are packed and I'm on my way to an asylum. Father is holding my hand, assuring me that mother wants me to get better too, but is too busy arranging a funeral for my sister to come escort me as well. I want to bite back and say that she hates me and would have killed me if she wasn't stopped, but I just smile instead. I don't want to shatter his fantasy of having a successful life and a perfectly normal family. And deep inside I know we have to keep pretending and playing house, so our social standing remains as good as it is. Which is why my childhood incident was never discussed again, and my asylum visit will be a vacation to our lake house as far was anyone else is concerned. I wonder how much money dad had to spend to make sure everything will be handled with discretion. We arrive in the afternoon and are escorted to the director's office. 

The chair feels uncomfortable, and the office is filled with clutter and old books with complicated or foreign titles. “This must be your daughter, Emmeline, Mr. Wright.” The director cheerily says as he takes his seat behind the table. “What a lovely young lady she seems to be.” He continues, complimenting me despite the fact that all his attention is focused exclusively on my father. My father responds to his pleasantries with the same cheery tone, though his attempt is more obviously tense. “I'm glad you could take her into your care on such short notice Doctor Phillips. There is no one else I would trust with my daughter.”  

Doctor Phillips smiles brightly at my father's admission, completely disregarding the underlying worry visible in his eyes. “But of course, Mr. Wright. What are old friends for after all? Now then, please tell me more of these so-called incidents with your daughter.” He says, taking off his top hat and leaning closer to father. He casts a small glance towards me as well and the urge to run away enters my mind instantly. I don't trust this man one bit. He just seems to ooze with this energy and presence reminiscent of a snake oil salesman. Father clears his throat as the facade of cheeriness is replaced by shame. He stops looking Doctor Phillips in the eyes. His eyes turn misty as he begins to talk.  

“When Emmeline was 10-years-old, we got her a cat as a Christmas present. It was this small grey kitten she named Charlie.” His voice starts to waver, and he forces himself to keep going. “The next week we caught Emmelie in the backyard trying to bury him. She told us that Charlie was going to be safe now and that everything would be okay. The veterinarian said Charlie had been healthy and died due to choking. Emmeline insisted it wasn't her, but some mysterious figure instead.”  

My father clenches his fists and bites his lip to try and remain composed even as tears start falling down his face. Doctor Phillips doesn't react or reassure him but wordlessly urges him to keep going. A sob escapes, but father continues his story. “I knew in my heart something was wrong with my little girl then, but I refused to truly see it. I insisted it was an accident, and Charlie was buried, and we never brought it up again. And Emmeline did so well. She was such a good girl despite her odd fears and fixations. Even if I doubted her sanity I never imagined she could... that she could... and to her own baby sister.” 

As he forces out those words, father buries his face in his hands, unable to keep up the facade of a strong unshakable man. His shoulders shake with the force of his cries. Doctor Phillips taps his cane with his fingers and father snaps out of his fit. Father sits up, takes a few deep breaths and wipes his face with his handkerchief returning to a more acceptable state. He clears his throat again, his voice now firm. “So, you must fix her doctor Phillips. She can hardly become a proper wife and a lady to someone of status in this state. My estate and family name depend on her.”  

My mouth momentarily twitches into a frown. I hate when my father speaks with that tone. A tone that clearly states to whoever is listening that he is above them in every way and unless they intend to say something useful back, it's best that they keep their mouth shut. But doctor Phillips simply guffaws back, unphased. “Reginald, my old friend. You haven't changed one bit from our school days.” Father doesn't respond to his teasing or comment on the fact that Doctor Phillips used his first name and not his surname. A silence settles into the room. Doctor Phillips stands up and walks over to me. Some primal instinct causes me to freeze as he begins to massage my scalp and turn my head like I was a marionette, and he was pulling the strings. 

“Hysteria, Mr. Wright. Thats all this is.” He says, voice cold and demeanor no longer cheery. His touch isn't gentle either, tugging and dragging my head around. As he continues explaining my situation, I pick up an undertone of pure disgust. “Too much isolation and ocean air. A severe case of hysteria too since your coddling has caused it to fester. But fear not, old friend. Next summer she will be ready to debut in society and find a husband. No more incidents, fixations or fits. She will be a new woman.”