Violet, Why?

There are parents who will tell you their child is feral, a hellion, a terror on their very worst day, and you wouldn't find it surprising. It happens to the best of them. But there are few by any measure who have a Violet like the one I treat.

I've been a practicing psychiatrist for thirty-six years. I'd say I've seen it all. But the most demanding patient I have ever had is Violet Harlow. I had one session left with Violet before my retirement. I haven't told her this. It wouldn't be wise to. And the realization that this would be the one case to mar my pristine record sits with me the way it always has—quietly and without resolve.

Her parents gave her up when she was three years old. And for good reason.

When she was living in the orphanage, they tried for a year to place her with a family. One took her and brought her back by the grace of God the next day. From then on, not a single family would bother. It got to where she couldn't be around the other orphans. Or any living thing that couldn't overpower her. So they placed Violet in an institution for mentally ill wardens of the state. It was better for everyone that way.

Or so everyone thought. Just last week, she stabbed an orderly in the leg during a routine checkup with a plastic fork she'd broken meticulously down to a shiv. She hit a large artery. The woman had to be rushed to the ER.

***

Today's session would likely be much like every other session we've had for the past six years.

Nine-year-old Violet sits before me in her violet dress, which she insisted upon, as if the color itself were hers alone. The heavy medication Violet is on does nothing, for reasons no one can adequately explain. It is almost supernatural, and it adds to her monstrousness.

"Hello, Violet. How are we today?"

"Delightful." Her sweet smile does nothing to hide her true colors. Not to me.

"I heard what happened with Ms. Bigsby last week. Do you want to tell me about it?"

"Oh, gladly, Miss Parker. Bigsby wanted to give me a shot. I simply did not want to be poked at. So I decided I'd poke her instead." She giggles.

"And does that seem fair to you?"

"Certainly. You get what you give."

"Well, now, Violet—if that were entirely true, wouldn't you then get what you give?"

She grips the sides of her chair and swings her legs violently, squinting at me as if she were trying to will my death on the spot. Thankfully, this is reality, and she simply doesn't have that kind of power.

"You've hurt people, Violet. But who ever hurt you?"

Violet is good at silence.

"You go quiet when I ask who hurt you. That's interesting."

I can tell she is shutting down.

"When Ms. Bigsby was bleeding, what did you notice?"

Instantly her eyes light up, and she sits upright.

"The color, Miss Parker. Her blood was a deep, dark red. Not bright like when you cut someone. It spread wide on her pant leg like a flower blooming." She pauses. "It was beautiful."

Good lord. But this is an opening. I have to take it without alarm.

"Do you particularly like red?"

"No. I liked this red because it had violet in it. And violet is my color."

"Is it your color because it's your name?"

"No. It's because I decided it was." She looks down at her hands clasped in her lap. "Nobody else wanted it, did they?"

I pause and make a note. "What else do you find beautiful, Violet?"

"Mmmm." She taps her chin. "Sunsets. Stillness. And you, Miss Parker."

"Care to share why?"

"Time. A state of being." Her eyes settle on me. "And a subject."

I know exactly what she means. I turned her words against her, and she hasn't forgotten.

"And what do you mean exactly?" Deciding to test her might be a mistake.

"Because, Miss Parker—I think watching you go still at sunset would be the most beautiful sight ever."

My skin crawls at her words. I wonder briefly how a child could find joy or beauty in the loss of life, and then stop wondering, because it makes my stomach turn. I draw in a slow breath. Then—

"When you think about growing up, Violet, what do you imagine for yourself?"

She considers this with what looks almost like genuine thought.

"I imagine being exactly where I want to be. Doing exactly as I please."

"And the people around you, in this life you're imagining. Who are they?"

"Useful... Or not there."

I have asked that question of dozens of children over the years. They wanted to be veterinarians. They wanted to live near the ocean. They wanted a dog, a family, a best friend. Not one of them has ever answered the way Violet just had. Not one. I make a note and move on.

"Violet—do you remember Sushi?"

She smiles so wide I begin to wonder if it will stop. Violet was just three years old when she decided it would be fun to break every bone in their pet cat, Sushi, and drag him around as if he were her lovey—thumb stuck in her mouth, twinkle in her eye.

"Yes. He was soft, but he moved too much. I couldn't cuddle him. So I made him floppy. He was my favorite thing to play with. I just adored Sushi."

"Did you know you were hurting him?"

"Of course. He cried out a lot. It was so cute—his loud meows." Her smile dims slightly. "Except he stopped making noise after I made him the way I wanted him to be. I didn't like that part."

I write a few sentences down, a synopsis, notes for the next practitioner naive enough to think they can fix this child.

"What are you writing about me?"

"Just notes so I don't forget our conversation. No need to worry."

"But, Miss Parker." Her voice, soft and pleasant. "You should."

"Should what? Worry?"

She giggles. Nods slowly, emphatically, up and down.

"But Violet—why?"

And Violet laughs. It starts as giggles and erupts into an absolute fit, shoulders shaking, eyes watering, a child helpless with delight at something only she can see.

I motion for the orderlies to put her straitjacket back on and take her away.

***

Outside, I light a cigarette. The tip glows deep red, and the sky is pink and violet with the brilliance of the sunset, her colors, she would say. All of them, somehow, hers.

There was never any abuse. Not a harsh word, not so much as a spank. Nothing had been done to her. It was as if she had simply arrived this way.

I watch the sun sink into the violet sky. I ask myself why.

Just—why?