When young Emily Quinn, accused of the brutal murder of her father, sits down with a world-famous psychiatrist, she has no idea she is walking into a frightening and twisted world…her own.
Pages in the Wind has been recognized by the former president of the American Psychiatric Association as a great-read for those interested in human emotions, mental illness, and survival under seemingly impossible condition.
The story is no textbook though; it is a thriller—a psychological thriller.
Read it. Breathe it. Touch it. Feel it.
Confiding in him about my dismal life had been cathartic at the party but not here. At school, I wanted to play the role of a regular kid. Pudge knew about my miserable life and how it affected my self-esteem. But dear God, I didn’t want anyone else to know. I didn’t want to live in misery all the time. So I learned how to play bocce with the popular kids and pretended to enjoy myself. I laughed in the right places and mimicked the other girls. I pretended to be playful, engaging, and connected. The act was phony. I was as fake as a Godless prayer.
I chewed on my thumbnail as I turned to a picture of our little house surrounded by daisies, neighbor kids with jump ropes, and a dog and cat. The pictures were joyful. That made me frown, caught off guard. I couldn’t remember being happy, but the picture told a different story. I looked like a typical four-year-old whose days consisted of lollipops and seesaws.
A jolt sucked the air from my lungs. My world changed because Penelope died.
I felt neither loved nor hated. The absence of both was nothing. Being around her was always the same. I have tried to reach her, touch her, and engage her. I have left my sketchpad open to my latest drawing, shared a teacher’s compliment—anything to impress her, but nothing. After my one-person show concluded, I was left with the aching pain of wanting someone who doesn’t want me.
The late afternoon sun cast our silhouettes on the dirt path. The shadows fascinated me, elongated figures walking together like dancers in unison with their fingertips touching. Strange, my murky shadow seemed more defined than the reflection earlier this morning in the mirror.