‘An Audience of One’

Elizabeth Agre ran far away from city life and into the north woods of Minnesota. She took her husband and the dog with her. She writes, paints, and takes pictures.

An Audience of One 

Mallory watched Ruth take her spot in the ensemble, where she belonged. Sure, she was a good dancer. Sure, she was pretty—from a distance. But she couldn’t really act. Couldn’t convey a whirlpool of feelings with the flourish of an arm, or snatch the audience’s gaze with the timbre of her voice like Mallory could. 

Mallory considered herself more of a “strong mover” than a real dancer, but thankfully Lithim only had three real dance numbers. 

“Break a leg, babe,” Ruth said while waving at her. 

“I’ll do my best!” she said. 

She hadn’t performed in front of an audience since the summer after college. She was nervous, but only in sort of a surface-level, showy way. A part of her knew she had nothing to be nervous about. 

Winged Victory Theatre prided itself on giving a stage to new and promising voices. Lithium, written by an ambitious 21-year-old piano prodigy from Kentucky, was staged as an “immersive” experience—this meant that Mallory and all the other cast members frequently performed in the aisles, traveling up and down steps to make swift exits, dramatic entrances, and look audience members in the eye while singing, crying, dancing, emoting. 

Act Two is where the show got good, in Mallory’s opinion. Act One was a bit of a drag, the songs all very emotional and weepy and internal. Mallory’s character, Layla, performed her big showstopper, “Dead and Gone,” near the start of Act Two. It was a belt-heavy ballad that picked up tempo at the end. It took place after she found out her fiancé died of a drug overdose, and she’s decided she’s done having her life and fate determined by men and their horrible choices. She loved singing it. It was the perfect showcase for her strong alto, and more importantly, her ability to express emotions, ideally tragic and desperate ones, through subtle and dynamically shifting facial expressions. Mallory was an actress first, singer second, dancer third. 

Amir was in the front row, a bouquet of pink roses on his lap. She flashed him little sneaky smiles throughout the first act. This was her chance to make him understand. He would have no choice anymore but to understand. She was done with tech recruiting. She was an actress, a professional one. An artist. A star. 

Act One went smoothly, but Mallory could feel she was holding back, only slightly. In rehearsals, she had made intense eye contact with the other cast members, felt herself breathing heavily in the emotional scenes, fully present on stage. But with Amir and everybody watching and so many thoughts buzzing through her brain, she felt a bit disconnected from the words she was saying, even though she was hitting every note. 

At intermission, she changed into the flowy green dress she wore for “Dead and Gone.” By this point, she had let go of her nerves. She knew she could perform the song beautifully. Clark had told her it was the best moment of the show—had confirmed what she already knew. She would sing it perfectly, and Amir would understand. She was born to be an actress, a performer. Even if it meant rocky finances for a year or so—even if it meant his investment banker and consultant friends and stuck-up parents weren’t sufficiently impressed. Fuck them all. When he saw her glimmering in a ray of blue light, singing “Dead and Gone,” chills spreading across every single audience member, he’d get it. 

When the lights started dimming, she headed upstairs through the back staircase and prepared to make her entrance from behind the audience. From the very back aisle, the audience members' heads were just shadowy bumps, some hairy, some bald. How interesting, she thought, that every one of those shadowy bumps is a person someone loves, or maybe hates. And they’ve all come to collectively watch a story unfold with so many shadowy strangers. All these shadowy bumps have come to see her. 

She took a heavy breath. The spotlight found her. All the bumps turned their torsos and looked up at her. 

“Dead?” she said. 

“Yes,” Alice called from the stage. “I’m so sorry, Layla.” 

In early rehearsals, she had played this moment very differently. She had been hysterical, frenzied with emotion and devastation. She had howled. But after a few weeks, she began reading the text differently. It was no longer a moment of raw emotion to her. Layla had been ready for this, had already been grieving him since the day they met. 

“Dead,” she repeated, stilly. 

The song began, a few low notes on the piano. The first verse was steely and reserved. She crossed the aisle, walking behind the very last row of the audience. Everyone’s gaze followed her path. She sang of all of the memories that rattled around her mind, like old rusted nails in a drawer. She sang of the wedding in the snow that they would never have. She sang of how he proposed to her on Christmas Day. 

She began descending the steps towards the stage. The blocking had her walking down the stairs during the bridge of the song as it built towards its dramatic final chorus, during which she would finally take center stage to belt out the song’s climax. 

At first she stepped carefully, then moved faster as the music picked up. In the front row she saw Amir’s face, half illuminated, turned up towards her. She couldn’t smile, not at this moment. 

This is the last song / You’re dead and gone / And my body lives on, she sang She began walking more swiftly. Just as she descended the next few steps, a man in the aisle seat sharply stuck his leg out. Before she could stop herself, her left foot, which was leading, collided with his sneakered foot. She tried to correct the fall, but just slid down the next stair and tumbled down the entire flight of steps. The band stopped playing. The audience gasped and then went quiet. Amir stood up, his bouquet of flowers falling to the ground. “Mallory!” he called out. 

She had fallen face-forward on the landing, and her dress hiked up, briefly exposing her underwear and pantyhose. She pulled her dress down to cover herself, and then tried to scramble to her feet. Her ankle was hot with pain, and she had to hold in the urge to cry out. 

The man in the aisle seat, the one who had stuck out his leg, stood up and offered her a hand. She did not take it. She glared at him, locked eyes with his, which held a false expression of concern. He was maybe sixty years old, white, with thinning whine hair and a long neck. She tried to burn the image of his face into her mind. She grabbed the closest railing and hauled herself up on shaky legs. 

Amir ran up the steps and took her by the hand. He guided her gently to the next plateau and walked her outside to the lobby. There was a shy applause as she exited. The embarrassment kept swelling, a balloon that would never pop. As soon as they entered the lobby, she burst into tears in Amir’s arms. Lily, the assistant stage manager, came and found her and confirmed she couldn’t perform for the remainder of the show. Thankfully, Ruth was ready to go on. 

Mallory thanked her and Amir helped her into his car. She flopped into the passenger seat. Amir tucked her dress into the car and shut the door. 

“I’m so sorry, babe,” he said as he began backing out of his parking spot. 

She said nothing, and he continued. “We’re taking you to the ER. That thing’s swollen as hell.” 

“I don’t have insurance,” she said. 

“I don’t care. You need to see a doctor. I’ll cover it myself,” Amir said. Another reminder that he was the one with the real career. 

“That piece of shit tripped me.” 

“What? There wasn’t anyone else on the stairs.” 

“Audience member. He put his leg out. Tripped me. On purpose.” 

“Why the hell would someone do that?” 

“Fuck if I know! For fun I guess, if you’re a psychopath.” 

“You really were doing amazing,” Amir said. 

She closed her eyes. The pain was starting to dull. Maybe it had never been that bad to begin with, heightened by the shame and shock. She sniffed the flowers he had brought her. They smelled like nothing. 

Clark scheduled an emergency rehearsal the next day, where they ran the show twice through with Ruth in the role of Layla. Mallory made it there just in time for the second run-through, doped up on extra-strength Tylenol, hobbling into the theatre on crutches and taking a seat next to Clark. She couldn’t let him think she wasn’t a team player, that she wasn’t as invested as ever before in Lithium’s success. Ruth made a heart with her hands at her, and she smiled back. Actors shouted, “We love you Miss Mallory!” They sounded kind, but just the slightest bit condescending. Mallory smiled back at them. 

“Love you guys more! I would say break a leg, but…” 

Everyone erupted into laughter. 

The show began, Mallory forcing herself to watch. She harnessed all of acting skills to not convey anguish on her face. 

“How long did the doctor say it’ll take to heal?” Clark leaned over and asked her softly. She considered lying, but decided it wasn’t worth it. “Up to four weeks. It’s not broken, just a bad sprain,” she said. 

“You keep off it, alright? Rest up. Let’s try to get you back in for closing weekend.” “Okay,” she said. 

Ruth began singing about her fiancé’s addiction. Where he goes, nobody knows, but oh, the loneliness grows. 

Her voice was thin, her eyes cartoonishly wide. Mallory’s dress was too big on her and made her look like a child. 

She closed her eyes and thought only of the pain in her leg. 

The next day, while lying on the couch with a melted bag of ice on her leg, she phoned the number for the Winged Victory box office. 

“Hey Justin, it’s Mallory.” 

“Mallory who?” 

Justin loved pretending he didn’t know who the actors were—his way of keeping them humble. When she stopped by to pick up her comp tickets, he’d still make her show her ID, as if her name and photo weren’t on the 5-foot poster behind his head. 

“Mallory Sims. I’m in the cast of Lithium.” 

“What can I do for you, Mallory?” he asked. She heard crunching noises through the phone. Probably Cheetos. 

“Are you able to look up a guest by what seat they bought?” 

“Why would I want to do that?” 

“In case we need to reach out to them. You know, notify them about something that happened during the show.” 

“I guess the better question would have been, why do you want to do that?”

“On opening night, I fell during one of my songs in Act Two.” 

“Oh, I know,” Justin said. 

“There was a gentleman in the audience who helped me up. It was so kind of him. I wanted to find out who he is, so that I can thank him.” 

“Do you know the seat number?” 

She had investigaated earlier that day before performances began. She was quite certain of the seat. 

“N21.” 

“And which performance again?” 

“Opening night. The 18th.” 

“Hmph.” 

No one spoke for a very long time. Mallory heard clicking and crunching noises and waited to say anything. The cold water was starting to leak out of the plastic bag, drip down her leg and onto the floor. 

“I can’t provide a patron’s personal or contact information.” 

“Justin! Come on. I want to send the man a thank you card.” 

“Yeah, I’m sorry. It’s policy.” 

“It’s literally just you, Justin. You make up your own policies.” 

“Box Office policy.” 

“But you can see his name?” 

“Yes, I can see his name and the contact information he provided upon purchase.”

“Even if I can confirm his name is Arthur Caldwell?” 

“What?” 

“I do know his name. It’s Arthur Caldwell. I just need his email address.”

“His name isn’t Arthur Caldwell. It’s Tim Horowitz. I’m looking at it here.”

The only thing Justin hated more than having to tell people yes was being wrong. “Oh, my bad. Well, thanks anyways, Justin.” 

She hung up the phone. 

A few quick Google and Facebook searches took her to the one and only middle-aged Tim Horowitz in the Atlanta area. 

Tim Horowitz, PsyD works with adults of all ages, helping them to overcome inner barriers to find joy in their social and romantic relationships, career, and personal goals. Many people suffer from symptoms of anxiety and depression or self-damaging patterns of behavior. We try to understand the problems and come to an agreement about how to best proceed to heal this behavior and allow you to live the joyful and fulfilled life you deserve. This therapeutic work always involves expanding self-understanding and awareness of oneself and others. 

He wore a navy blue suit with no tie and a crisp grey button-down. He smiled the same understanding smile as when he had offered her his hand. Warm brown eyes, white hair, gentle creases in his face. It was hard to contain her hatred for him for even a moment. 

What a disgusting man, she thought. She traveled to his reviews page. There were only three reviews left by clients: two of them were 5 stars, and one was 4 stars. The only one with text read “Dr. Horowitz was kind, respectful, and offered helpful strategies on how to overcome self-doubt and rumination cycles. I would recommend him for treatment for anxiety and self-esteem problems.” 

Mallory created an account on the website under the name Kelly James. She verified that she had been a patient of Dr. Horowitz, selected 1 star for her rating, and wrote, Dr. Tim Horowitz, PsyD was the most unprofessional psychologist I have had the displeasure of seeing. 

She had taken creative writing classes in college. She could do better than that. She continued. I saw Dr. Horowitz for treatment after a painful divorce. I was in a deep, dark cavern of depression. He blamed the divorce on me entirely, shaming me for not losing weight after the birth of our second child, and implied I should have had sex with my ex-husband more often. The words he used were “Men are visual creatures. A little effort could have gone a long way.” Simply DISGUSTING. Do NOT book an appointment with this sad excuse for a psychotherapist. Do you verify that the information in this review is truthful and accurate? 

Yes. 

Submit. 

She felt a little better. 

What had made her more angry than anything was the unsubstantiated thought that Amir might have viewed the fall as some sort of bizarre justice, punishment for wanting to be in the spotlight, believing herself worthy of a life on the stage—pride cometh before the fall. She had no concrete reason to believe Amir thought that. So why couldn’t she let it go, her thoughts of his imaginary thoughts? 

Take whatever you’re holding on today, and let it go, she had told her students when she used to teach yoga classes on weekend mornings. How could she understand so clearly what she needed to do, and not be able to do it? It was a horrible predicament. 

“You don’t look like you’re hobbling anymore. As cute as you were as a hobbler,” Amir told her at dinner. 

He was always trying to lift her spirits, point out something positive, no matter how asinine. As if a few half-full glasses of water could rid her of this curse, patch up the tornado of rage and hatred swirling around her mind. 

“No way I’ll be able to make it up and down stairs, though. Not before closing weekend.”

“Think pretty, my love. It already looks so much better, and it’s only been a week.”

“You’re right. Think pretty,” she said. 

The next afternoon, an email came in from FindMyPsychotherapist.com—the subject line: Your Review Has Been Removed. 

Dear Kelly, 

We are writing to notify you that your review left on 9/22/2025 for Dr. Tim Horowitz has been removed. 

Reason: Inaccurate or False Information: Content that misrepresents facts, such as false claims of malpractice. 

If you would like to dispute this decision, you can request an appeal here. Appeals can take up to 2 weeks to be reviewed. 

The anger came down on her like an anvil. Not only did this man ruin her one opportunity to succeed as an actress, physically injure her, and humiliate her, now he was regulating what she could write and share online. 

Without thinking, she immediately made another account: Claire Parker, a patient of Dr. Horowitz’s for three years. 

Dr. Horowitz made inappropriate and suggestive comments towards me in several of our sessions. When I told him I was feeling a lack of confidence, he told me I should try dressing “sluttier” to get the attention of men, as they would appreciate my “bouncy rack.” As a young woman, this made me uncomfortable on SO many levels. This man is a misogynistic crock, NOT a respectable mental health professional. Do NOT schedule an appointment with him. 

Do you verify that the information in this review is truthful and accurate? Yes. 

Submit. 

Less than 24 hours later, she had the same email in the inbox of the new account she had made. Your Review Has Been Removed. 

She made another account. Anna Riley, patient of Dr. Horowitz’s for four months. Dr. Horowitz told me that I should get back with my ex-husband who cheated on me with four different women because, I quote “ALL MEN CHEAT.” He confessed to cheating on his own wife several times, justifying it by claiming “sometimes we need a break from all the nagging and noise.” I left the session confused, doubting myself, and completely lost. Simply DISGUSTING behavior. 

Do you verify that the information in this review is truthful and accurate? Yes. 

Submit. 

Amir had to work late the next week, so Malloy spent days alone in the apartment. The AC in their apartment was broken. She sat in the warm apartment all day, her leg numb from being elevated for hours at a time. She was in a tired, lazy fog: had hardly been sleeping at night, waking up at 1 AM to images pounding through her mind: her underwear being exposed to the audience, Amir lurching out of his seat, Tim Horowitz’ smug eyes daring her to accept his help. The more she tried to banish them, the stronger they returned. 

She wasn’t used to having so much time with nothing to do. She had found her old Nintendo DS from decades ago and had been playing Nintendogs for hours on end. She ate salt and vinegar chips from a massive bag, felt her body growing warmer and blubberier, her muscles softening. The only moments she felt free from the thoughts buzzing like mosquitoes were when she would lose track of time and live only on the tiny Nintendo screen, her imaginary beagle winning trophies for his exceptional agility. “And he’s done it again!” the virtual announcer said. She couldn’t move off the couch, even if she wanted to. She was melting into it. 

In the evenings, she attended shows of Lithium. She had to keep herself sharp, couldn’t risk forgetting blocking or lyrics by the time closing night rolled around. She sat by herself in last few rows and forced herself to clap after each number. The most painful part was Dead and Gone in Act Two. She wanted to cry when she watched Ruth float down the stairs fearlessly, no loose limbs sticking out to sabotage her. She fixated on the faces of every audience member in the aisle seats next to the stairs—all of them looked normal, kind, unobtrusive, night after night. 

Why had she gotten stuck with the psychopathic psychotherapist? Why her? Why on such an important night? Who was punishing her for daring to believe in herself? She left right after curtain, before the standing ovation began. Perhaps she would never know what it felt like. She cried in the car on the way home, allowing herself to feel sorry for herself, letting herself, not it, go down the river. She would end up sinking and flailing in a reservoir with all the shit and pain and grudges she had once let go. 

When she got home, she saw she had a new email. 

Subject: Your Account Has Been Banned. 

We are writing to notify you that your IP address has been banned from 

FindMyPsychotherapist.com 

Reason: Review Manipulation 

This decision cannot be appealed. 

A part of her had known this was inevitable. The world, the computer, Amir, everyone was telling her to let it go. She deleted the email, deleted the entire email account. And turned off her phone. She saw a glimpse of how deranged her behavior had been, how separate from her real self existing in the world. Although it had felt entirely sensical at the time, not the slightest bit deranged. 

Amir came home at 11 PM, while she was on the couch in a t-shirt and sweatpants eating peanut butter frozen yogurt from the tub. 

“How was the show?” he asked her. 

She smiled, tried to look relaxed, happy to see him. 

“Pretty good! The cello player didn’t sound like she was playing with a stick of celery instead of a bow tonight.” 

Amir chuckled. “See? At least you don’t have to try to sing along to that!” He set down his work bag, slipped off his loafers. He looked even more exhausted than Mallory, and she realized she has been practically ignoring him the entire work, living in her world of self-pity and online reviews and Nintentogs. 

She was tired of pretending to be cheerful about the whole thing. “It’s bullshit,” she said. “What is?” 

“All this. The fact that I quit my job for this, and here I am sitting on the couch all day while Ruth plays the part I’m supposed to be playing.” 

“You’ll get back out there, Mal. It’s not like you’re paralyzed or something.” “I don’t know if I will,” she said. 

“Then what? You go back to recruiting?” 

“Why is everything about my career? About my value? Why can’t I just exist, do the things I want to do? 

“Where is this coming from? I’m trying to help you do the things you want to do. I’m trying to support you, get you back out there performing.” 

“You knew I would fail.” 

He looked angry, and she was aware that she had angered him on purpose.

“I what?” he yelled. 

“You told me not to quit my job. You told me so many times, got in my head, made me question if I could make it as an actress. Made me try to prove myself to you.” “I never did anything like that. I sat down with you and tried to carve out a plan for your—for our—finances that would allow you to do what you want to do, and do it responsibly. Sustainably. I never told you what to do or not to do.” 

She couldn’t remember the details of what Amir had actually said or done, only how had she had felt: insufficient, doomed to fail, doomed to provide no value. 

“So this is all my fault? Not only getting hurt, but my reaction to it is my fault, too?” she cried. 

“Yes. This is apparently news to you, but you are responsible for your emotions and your actions, Mallory,” he said coldly. He clawed at his tie, began taking it off, and walked quickly to the bedroom, leaving her alone on the couch. 

The air felt warm and fuzzy. Tiny white bugs crawled through the soil of her favorite plant, the monstera she had for six years that Amir never helped water. Her face burned and her hair was damp with sweat. She knew Amir wouldn’t be coming back out to the living room to check on her. In thirty minutes, he’d be snoring. She wouldn’t humiliate herself further by begging for his understanding. 

She grabbed her laptop, out the door, and walked as quickly as she could through the hallway to the elevators. She went to the top floor, where there was a garden patio with pretty views of the evening sky. She sat down, opened her laptop, and found the website for the Georgia Composite Medical Board. 

TO FILE A COMPLAINT CLICK HERE. 

She wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote. Her hands moved faster than she could think. She wrote about Dr. Horowitz’s cruelty, his unprofessionalism, how he had placed his on her upper thigh, his complete disregard for ethics, his digusting, misogynistic view of women, his inflated view of self. 

She clicked submit, closed the laptop, and fell asleep on the plastic basket–weave bench, her puffy leg hanging slightly off the edge. 

A week later, Mallory’s ankle had almost entirely healed, just in time for the closing performance. She wanted to feel happy when Clark announced “She’s back, baby!” in rehearsals and everyone applauded, but she still felt robbed of something, incomplete. 

It didn’t help that Amir still “needed some space” and was indefinitely staying with his friend Robbie, responding with only one-word answers to her texts. 

She invited him to closing night, and he responded, Glad you’re getting to perform. I’ll try to make it but work has been tough. 

She set his texts to silent. 

She caught up on the sleep she’d missed. No more chips, no more Nintentdogs, no more obsessing over Dr. Horowitz. She made herself a smoothie with frozen banana and spinach. She’s back, baby. 

Call time was 5:30 PM. She had all day to relax, become herself again. Become the little girl from all the home videos who was her happiest when she put on a tutu and twirled and sang songs from The Little Mermaid at family parties; the girl who won her eight-grade talent show with her rendition of Oops, I Did It Again, the girl who had made her professor cry when she played Ophelia in Hamlet in college, and now the woman who was deservedly cast as the lead, and not the understudy, in the world premiere of a brand-new, cutting-edge musical called Lithium. 

She was born to perform, and life was giving her a second chance. 

She did thirty minutes of meditation, some light stretching. She reread her all-time favorite book: Sense and Sensibility. It was the only thing she still enjoyed reading; modern books had no idea how to be fun or clever. 

She heard a knock at the door. It had to be Amir, come to make things right. She would open the door and he’d be standing there with flowers, maybe a bottle of champagne. She let her hair down out of its ponytail, headed towards the door, put a smile on her face, rolled her shoulders back and opened it. 

It was not Amir, but a middle-aged woman Mallory had never seen in her life. She bore no gifts. 

She had long, reddish-brown hair styled in a perfect blowout. She was wearing a loose-fitting kaftan-style turquoise top with matching, loose pants. She looked expensive, but wore little makeup. Her face was sharp, resisting the pull of sagginess. Her expression gave nothing away. 

“Hi! Can I help you?” Mallory asked. 

“I think you may,” the woman responded. 

“Do we know one another? Are you with Atlanta Now?” She had heard swirlings of Atlanta Now doing a story on Lithium, and would be surprised for a journalist to show up at her house unannounced, but she knew how pushy they could be. 

“I’m not,” she said. “My name is Charlotte. Charlotte Horowitz. What’s your name? You can only pick one.” 

Mallory felt all the inner peace leave her body. Her hand gripped tightly on the doorknob. “Mallory Kirkwood,” she said. 

“Can I come in?” Charlotte said, and before Mallory answered, brushed past her into the apartment. She took a seat on the couch, and Mallory sat down in the armchair across from her. “My nephew works in cybersecurity. We had him do a little detective work. Didn’t take too long to find your IP address. Then your actual address. Do you have anything to say?” She shook her head no. 

“Do you live here alone?” Charlotte asked. 

“No. I have a boyfriend—he’s not home now.” 

“Does he know?” 

“Know what?” Mallory asked. 

Charlotte smiled tightly, sunk further into the couch. “My husband has been a mental health professional for 41 years. Longer than you’ve been alive. He’s helped war veterans with their PTSD, drug addicts, grieving widows and widowers, people with depression so severe they went a year without brushing their teeth, had mold growing on every single thing in their kitchen. He has, quite literally, talked someone off a ledge who came this close to killing himself.” She pinched her fingers together, looked directly at Mallory, not blinking. “But none of that means anything to you, does it?” 

Mallory didn’t care how many good things Tim had done. It only takes one bad thing to erase all the good. She knew this best because it had happened to her. One bad thing had erased all the good. 

“So as you can imagine, I’ve come here to ask you to stop. Stop…the internet trolling, the lies, the horrible accusations. I don’t know why you are doing any of this, or what you have against my husband, but you have to stop. He’s under investigation right now, and if god forbid they screw it up and claim they found something, he loses his license, and our lives are ruined. Do you understand? Our retirements, our kids’ college loans, our mortgage—I don’t know if we’ll be able to pay it off without his salary. I have a grandson with down syndrome. We have people relying on us, a baby relying on us. Are you prepared to ruin that many lives?” 

“If he hasn’t done anything wrong, why are you concerned they will find something?” Charlotte crossed her legs. She released the pathetic pleading look she had had on her face. As an actress, Mallory knew acting when she saw it. Acting was everywhere; Amir was often acting, she herself was often acting. 

“My husband hasn’t done any of the disgusting things you wrote about. But we both know that accusations alone can be enough to damage someone’s career, to destroy their reputation in some cases. And for that reason, I am telling you you need to stop before things get worse. If it’s money you’re looking for, I’m open to discussion. If you saw my husband years ago, and he did something to offend you, if there’s a misunderstanding, he will apologize. We just need you to stop. I didn’t come here to threaten you, but you should know we have been in touch with a lawyer, and I believe we have a solid case for defamation if it…comes to that. So please, work with us.” 

“I’m not looking for money,” Mallory said calmly. 

“What are you looking for?” Charlotte shifted on the couch, softened her expression. She laid her arms out on her legs, palms up. It was a psychological tactic to gain trust. Maybe she learned it from her husband. 

“I’m lookin’ for…justice.” 

“What do you mean?” Charlotte asked. 

“It’s hard to explain…” she said. 

“Please. You can talk to me. We want to help, Tim and I both,” Charlotte said.

She considered honesty. She could tell Charlotte that her husband had tripped her for no reason at all, had hurt her physically, damaged her career, her relationship, her self-worth. But how could she make her understand the depths of her pain? How could she see that he had already destroyed her life the way Charlotte feared Mallory destroying hers? She remembered her acting professor telling her People only speak to get something they want. What does Ophelia want? Charlotte had kind eyes, but she was only speaking to get what she wanted. 

“Fifteen years ago…I was fourteen. My older sister Carolyn was my best friend. She was the silliest person I knew—she could literally make me laugh with a single word, no matter where we were. School, a fancy dinner, lacrosse practice. Her sophomore year high school, Carolyn started getting bullied. I still don’t know what she did to make people hate her. Something that happened in the P.E. locker room–she wouldn’t tell me. But they came up with these horrible rumors, called her a slut, a whore, a pervert. Disgusting things. Untrue things. She was too embarrassed to tell our parents what was going on, but they could tell something was really wrong. She was depressed. As bad as the people you talked about, the people who wouldn’t brush their teeth. They signed her up for counseling, tried a few different therapists. None of them helped. They recommended someone more specialized, a psychotherapist—Dr. Horowitz. After the first few sessions, she seemed to be getting better. She started eating normally again, hung out with a few of her friends. But then, one day, she got way worse. She wouldn’t get out of bed, wouldn’t respond to anybody. It was almost like she was comatose. Eventually, when it was just me and her, I got her to open up to me, a bit. She told me Dr. Horowitz had called her the same thing as all the bullies. Had told her that she was promiscuous and it was her fault, whatever happened in the locker room. She said if even her own doctor hated her, thought she was dirty, there was nothing good left for her in the world.” 

She felt a warm tear hit her bare leg. She wiped her face on her shirt sleeve. “Sorry.” 

Charlotte’s face was blank. 

“Two days later…two days later, Carolyn was gone.” She buried her face in her hands. “My mom found her. And she’s never been the same. None of us have.” She straightened back up, cleared her throat. She looked directly at Charlotte. “So yes, I blame your husband. And no, I was never able to let it go.” 

Charlotte’s hands flipped back over. She looked down, maybe in shame. 

“I’m sorry. For the reviews,” Mallory sobbed. 

“Are you—are you sure it was the same Dr. Horowitz?” Charlotte asked softly. “Yes. I remember him so clearly.” 

“I don’t know what to say to this,” Charlotte said. “I’m very sorry for your sister, and that you went through something so awful. I just—I don’t believe that Tim would…” she trailed off, letting Mallory’s sobs fill the air. “I’m sorry.” 

“I’ll withdraw my complaint,” Mallory said. “And stop with the reviews. I promise. I feel better now, having talked about it. I’m sorry for any stress I caused. I never wanted that. I just wanted to take back a little power. I wanted justice.” 

Charlotte stood up and grabbed the coffee table for support… She looked like she was going to faint. “Thank you, Mallory. We are grateful for it,” she said. 

Mallory stayed seated as Charlotte left without looking at her. She took a deep breath, dried her face, and tried to let the thoughts trickle and drain from her mind. Amir hadn’t texted her. The apartment was quiet without him. She even missed his rambling about mergers and backlogs and his boss’s incompetence. 

She would need to ice her face to get rid of the puffiness. It was just two hours until call time, and then she could be Layla. 

Georgia Smith is a writer based in Atlanta, Georgia. Her short stories have recently appeared in Coolest American Stories and The Headlight Review. She was also awarded a New Voices Fellowship at the Alexandria Emerging Writers Festival, and accepted into the 2024 Juniper Writing Institute, where she learned from a lot of incredible writers.