The Women's Group

The room was always too quiet, the hum of fluorescent lights filling the spaces between every word, every breath. The mismatched chairs, arranged in a half-circle around a coffee table, seemed out of place in a room meant to heal. The walls were bare, save for the occasional poster with uplifting phrases like "Hope is the first step" and "You are not alone." The women who gathered there each week were survivors—of violence, betrayal, emotional trauma. Each of them bore scars, some visible, most invisible. But they were survivors, and Clara was one of them. 

When Clara first joined the group, she was quiet, observant. At first, the others seemed so much stronger, their voices raw with emotion, their stories filled with pain. She wasn’t sure if she belonged, at least not yet. But as the weeks passed, she began to find her place. She’d always been good at listening, and for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to hear the pain in others' words, as though sharing it somehow made it easier to bear. 

“Would you like to share today, Clara?” Maria, the group leader, asked gently, her voice soft but insistent. 

Clara hesitated. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to speak, but Maria’s warmth encouraged her. She nodded. 

“I guess… I guess I can try,” Clara said, her voice soft at first, then gaining strength. “It wasn’t just the bruises. It was the silence too. The silence after the shouting stopped. That’s the hardest part, isn’t it? The quiet.” 

The room fell still, save for the gentle rustle of the other women shifting in their seats. The faces around Clara were open, receptive. They understood. 

“I thought I could fix it, you know? I thought I could make it better, make everything normal. But I couldn’t. I wasn’t strong enough. And when I left… I thought I’d feel free, but instead, I felt empty. It wasn’t like I imagined.” Clara’s voice faltered at the last part, but she forced herself to continue. “I thought I’d find peace. But now it’s just this. Silence. And a whole lot of regret.” 

Emma, who had been sitting next to Clara, reached over and gently touched her arm. “It’s okay to feel lost,” she said quietly. “You’re not alone here. You’re making progress.” 

Clara managed a small, grateful smile. Progress. It was a strange word, but it was one she had never expected to hear about herself. She wasn’t sure what it meant exactly, but maybe, just maybe, it was a little less darkness each day. 

As the weeks passed, Clara found herself returning to the group each time. With every session, she spoke a little more. She shared fragments of her life, the painful pieces of her past, and slowly began to recognize something inside her she hadn’t seen in years: strength. She even started offering advice to the others, taking comfort in their struggles and offering the kind of counsel that felt foreign coming from her lips. 

One evening, the group gathered as usual. Clara had arrived early, feeling lighter than she had in ages. She smiled to herself as she sat down in her usual spot, running her fingers along the worn armrest of her chair. This, she thought, was where she belonged. This circle of women, with their shared pain and their courage, was her home now. 

The others began to arrive. Sarah, who had recently separated from an abusive partner, sat beside her. Rachel, a woman in her late thirties with short dark hair and a sharp gaze, entered last. Clara had always been drawn to Rachel. There was something about her—a quiet intensity, an unspoken understanding between them. But that evening, something felt different. As Rachel sat across from Clara, she caught Clara’s eye and stared for a moment too long, as if studying her. Clara felt an odd sensation in her chest, a strange, familiar unease. 

But before Clara could make sense of it, Rachel blinked and turned to the woman beside her. Clara turned her attention back to the group, but the sense of discomfort lingered. Something wasn’t right. 

The following week, Clara entered the room and immediately felt a shift in the air. It was colder. The room felt smaller. The usual faces—Emma, Sarah—weren’t there. Rachel was missing too. 

Maria, the group leader, smiled at Clara warmly, but her expression seemed distant. “Clara, are you feeling okay today?” she asked. 

Clara nodded slowly, but her stomach twisted. Something was wrong, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. “I… I’m fine,” she said, but the words didn’t feel real. 

“Why don’t we get started?” Maria suggested, her voice soft, almost too gentle. 

The session began, but Clara couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. The women in the room, the women who were supposed to be her fellow survivors, were now strangers. Their faces seemed unfamiliar, as though they had changed in the time between meetings. It was as though their features were shifting, blurring together. The sounds of their voices, the cadence of their words, all felt distant, as though coming from far away. Their stories, once so real, were now hollow. 

Rachel was there now, but she was different—colder, more distant, her eyes fixed on Clara as if she were an object to be scrutinized. Clara tried to speak to her, to ask if something was wrong, but no words came out. She tried to say something to Maria, but the words faltered on her tongue. 

“I think I need to leave,” Clara said suddenly, standing up so quickly that her chair toppled over. The others didn’t react. Maria didn’t even look up from her notes. 

Confusion flooded Clara’s mind. The women in the room—the group—had ceased to exist for her. The walls closed in, pressing against her chest. She needed to escape. But as she turned to leave, she stopped. 

The door wasn’t where it should be. 

Clara stood frozen in place. The door was gone, replaced by a blank wall. Her heart pounded as she turned in panic, her breath shallow. Her mind was spinning, losing its grip on reality. She felt like she was drowning in her own confusion, and no one was there to help her.

Clara woke up in a sterile white room, the harsh lighting flickering above her. She was no longer in the group, no longer surrounded by the women. She was alone. The smell of antiseptic filled the air. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the cold, grey walls surrounding her. Her body felt stiff, as if it had been in the same position for too long. 

A door opened. Dr. Thornton, a man in a plain suit, entered. His eyes were kind, but his gaze had an edge of exhaustion, like someone who had seen too much. He sat down beside her.

“Clara,” he began gently, his tone calm but firm, “I know this is difficult. But you’re safe now. The group, the healing process you thought you were going through—none of it was real. Those women, the support, the progress you thought you made—they were all projections of your mind. They were never there.” 

Clara stared at him, confusion washing over her like a tide. “I don’t understand. Where am I? What happened?” 

“You’ve been here for a while, Clara,” Dr. Thornton explained. “The women you were speaking to—Emma, Sarah, Rachel—those were parts of your own mind. You created them as a way to cope with your trauma, to give yourself the support you so desperately needed. But none of it was real. You were never in that group.” 

Clara’s heart pounded. Her hands shook as the realization dawned. It wasn’t real. None of it. The women. The group. Her progress. All of it had been a fabrication, a delicate illusion created by her mind to protect her from the truth. The truth that she had been locked away in this sterile, white room all along. 

Behind Dr. Thornton, the door opened again. A man with a camera stepped inside—a documentary filmmaker who had been following Clara’s journey. He stood quietly, not speaking, just observing. 

Dr. Thornton turned to him and spoke in a quiet, weary voice. “Her mind broke, you see. The group, the personalities—it was all her way of surviving, of protecting herself from the reality she couldn’t face. But now, she has to confront it. She has to face herself.” 

The filmmaker nodded silently, his camera steady. 

Dr. Thornton sighed, turning back to Clara. His expression softened. “You never know a good thing,” he said quietly, almost to himself, “until it’s gone.” 

Clara’s eyes met his, and she finally understood. He wasn’t talking about the group. He was talking about her mind—the fragile construct she had created, now shattered and lost to her. The only thing that had ever really kept her together was now gone.