One for Sorrow (Isabel Fielding, #1)

by Sarah A. Denzil

I realised that people found it much harder to picture the average patient as someone who was unfortunate, someone who had been a victim for most of their life, who was never given the start in life that they needed. What they wanted to believe was that some people were born degenerates, or that they were evil to the core. That wasn’t my experience. In Whitmore I worked with many patients suffering from antisocial personality disorder—or sociopaths, if you want to call them that—and discovered that most of the residents under my care had been abused by a significant person in their life, usually at a very young age. Children need love and care. They need to form an attachment. When a child fails to form an attachment with a caregiver, they fail to learn empathy. That’s how you build a sociopath.

there were six-key rooms, where six nurses were required to be present when the door was opened. They worked as a team, ensuring that the patient was properly restrained, each entering or exiting the room one at a time, and each with a role to play in the restraint. At the end, when a patient was taken back to his room, he would be placed down on the bed, with each nurse leaving one at a time, from the nurse furthest away from the door to the nurse closest to the door.

What goes into making a sociopath? Was the Monster of York born that way, or was he created? And if he actually believed his delusions, at what point did his mind break?

The human mind is fragile, built upon tiny impulses of electricity sending signals to the rest of the body. Our thoughts, our feelings, our language, it all comes from the brain, so when one of those little electric impulses goes haywire, we follow suit.

Everyone liked my father. They couldn’t believe what he’d done. But the person behind closed doors is not always the person out in the world.

laconic

Did any of us have much choice in life, or were we all marching to the beat of our own circumstances? Once she killed that child she became traumatised and troubled. Then she was corrupted again by the casting directors, used and spat out, given a stomach full of empty promises. Finally, the one person she thought she loved betrayed her in one of the worst possible ways. She’d given him her body. She thought he’d given her his. But then she realised he was giving his body to another, and she couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t bear it. “You’re rather sympathetic to murderers.” Alfie exhaled smoke and grinned at me. “Murderers are created,” I said. “There’s always a reason for what they do, if you look hard enough, if you dig deep enough.”

“First things first, you’re a good nurse, Leah. I’ve been working here for a while. I see good and bad nurses step through those doors. You’re a good nurse. You care about the patients. You’re able to see around their past crimes or their difficult upbringings, and you talk to them like they’re human beings.”

“Now, remember what I said. Just because Isabel is innocent doesn’t mean you get to prioritise her. Treat the others the same.” He hurried off down the corridor away from me. It was only when I started making my way towards the patients’ communal area that I realised what he’d said: Just because Isabel is innocent. Innocent.

“Occam’s Razor.” James sipped his coffee. “The most logical conclusion is generally the right one. But not always.

Today I have painted you a little owl. They represent what you would imagine they would: wise, contemplative, and enlightened, which is what I assume you to be.

In fact, conversations with Seb were pretty sparse, but he was always there when I needed someone. I’ll take deeds over words anytime.

When you’re poor, shame comes as naturally as breathing, but unlike breathing, you never get used to it.

I had the kind of brain that enjoyed reaching into the depths and revealing my worst fears to me on a regular basis. If you ever find yourself sitting alone with your mind on a loop of all the worst things that have ever happened to you, then you’ll know exactly what I mean, and the only thing that turns it off is alcohol.

Since my father had killed my mother, grief had worked its way over my body like a cheese grater to my skin. I ate, I slept, I breathed, I drove to work, I talked to others, and I maintained a job, but it was all hanging by a thread. If I was honest with myself, I’d have to admit that I’d been hanging on by a thread since they died.

Hospitals reminded me of schools, where you could watch thunderstorms from the window, clustered with your class, bonded together as one for an afternoon. It felt like the storm would never touch you if you were in class with the teacher. Perhaps it was because in school, or hospital, or prison, you hand over the control of your life to someone better: a teacher, a doctor, a guard, a boss.