Locked Tight by Hasti Abbasi

Locked Tight by Hasti Abbasi

The door opens with a creak. A nurse walks in, her hair tied back. Her silver earrings catch the light as she moves. “The doctor’s here to see you,” she says.

Daisy tries to push herself up against the cold metal bed frame. The thin mattress feels stiff against her aching body. She has already talked to three psychologists since yesterday. Her tired eyes shadowed by the sleepless night, meet the nurse’s, “I’ve told everything to your doctors,” she says, her voice tense and irritated.

The psychologist enters the room. The words escape Daisy’s lips in a pleading tone. “I would never hurt my kid.” Her fingers trace the cluster of dark grey whiskers sprouting from a mole on her chin.

The psychologist, a man with soft features and a clean-shaven face, steps closer. Her eyes drop to his shoes and notice the slightly uneven shoelaces, a small flaw in his otherwise polished appearance. For a moment, Daisy’s mind drifts, wondering about his gentle expression and how out of place it seems in this harsh environment.

He smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle. He gestures towards a chair next to the bed.  Its paint is chipped and its legs look worn, showing it has seen better days. “May I sit?” he asks, then sits down and leans forward, his eyes studying her. “How about some water?” he offers, already moving to pour it.

Daisy stares at the cup.

The sound of water pouring into a plastic cup breaks the silence.

She reaches out with a trembling hand, her fingers brushing the cold surface before gripping it. “Thanks,” she says quietly.

The psychologist gives her a thoughtful smile.

“Yesterday, you told Rita that you always wanted to be someone but didn’t necessarily see yourself as a mother. Can you tell me more about why being a mom feels hard for you?”

She looks at him, her lips part, words hover on the edge of her tongue, but they fail her. How could she explain the fear of feeling invisible? Of living in a world where no one sees you, no one cares for you, no one loves you. How terrifying it is to live in a world where your absence wouldn’t make a difference on anyone’s life.  

And then there’s your child, waiting for your kisses, for you to feed her, to hold her, to love her. And you do. You kiss her, hold her, love her. But questions never stop. Are you enough? Will you ever be enough?

“I love my daughter,” she whispers, her voice so soft it barely carries. “That’s not what I meant. I just… I wanted a career. An education. Something more. Alongside being a mom.” Her eyes meet his, desperate. “Please, get me out of this locked ward.”

The psychologist’s gentle nod and soft smile take Daisy back to the early days with Nick, when he was kind and reassuring. They divorced three years ago, eleven months after they stopped sharing a bed, and six months after he left her. He had promised to love and protect her on their wedding night, but he broke that promise, leaving her for another woman, to whom he made the same vows.

Daisy spent hours online, searching for ways to be more desirable. She planned workout routines and studied intimate details, convinced that her fat body was the problem, that she wasn’t good enough.

Jealousy burned inside Daisy every time Nick’s attention was fixed on his phone, a device that seemed more important to him than she ever was.

In the early days of their marriage, things were different. After making love, they would fall asleep in each other’s arms—Nick holding Daisy, and Daisy cradling Emily. Those memories now feel like distant echoes of a happiness she can barely remember.

Now, there are moments when Daisy wishes that neither she nor her daughter had ever existed, to spare them both the unbearable loneliness and cruelty of life. She feels crushed by the isolation and the shallow relationships around her, where people only seem to care about others when there’s something to gain. And with little to offer, she feels she has no close friends. She dreams of a life where she doesn’t have to endure long retail shifts just to survive.

She had poured all of this out to Rita, her counselor, during their session yesterday.

Hours later, when the police arrived at her door, Daisy’s heart sank. Betrayal and frustration washed over her as she realized that Rita had completely misunderstood everything Daisy had tried to say.

What you long for but can never have is what truly wounds you, shatters you, and slowly destroys you, she thinks. “Please, let me out of here,” she says, her voice trembling.

The psychologist leans in slightly, his voice calm and confidential. “Listen, I don’t think you’re capable of hurting your daughter. But you need to promise to call us at the numbers we’ve given you if you ever feel like hurting yourself or her. Alright?”

Daisy nods, her voice barely more than a breath. “I promise.”

He gestures towards the door where two women are now standing. “These two kind ladies will assist you today with anything you might need,” he says.

One of the social workers is wearing a blue sweater that looks like it came straight out of an 80s fashion magazine. Her white shoes are spotless, and the laces are tied so perfectly and evenly that they look as if they were measured with a ruler. Beside her stands another woman in brown boots, standing confidently and giving off an air of laid-back efficiency.

“Hi, I’m Katherine. Nice to meet you,” says the woman with the shoelaces. Daisy smiles at Katherine’s neatness, feeling a sense of comfort in the order it represents amidst the chaos of her own life.

Her eyes move past Katherine’s blond hair, twisted into oversized braids as thick as baguettes, and settle on the other woman, who has no shoelaces. “I’m Nicole,” the second woman says.

 The psychologist stands up and gives a small, theatrical bow before walking out of the room. The nurse follows behind him, silent and steady, like a dutiful shadow.

Nicole leaves the room, and Daisy follows behind her, her eyes fixed on the floor. Just before stepping out, Daisy stops, taps the doorknob three times, whispers, “Locked tight,” and does a quick spin. The social workers glance at each other, looking puzzled. Katherine raises an eyebrow, a faint smile playing at her lips. “Just wait here, okay? We’ll be back in a bit,” she says when they reach the nurses’ station.

Daisy sits down on a hard plastic chair. The cold surface presses against her, keeping her grounded in the moment. She looks around the nurses’ station and notices a few women heading toward the cafeteria, where round tables are covered with green skirts. The walls, painted a dull beige, are lined with old health and hygiene posters, their edges curling.

Clutching her hands tightly in her lap, Daisy listens to the soft buzzing sound of the lights above her.

She feels the weight of their gazes, as if everyone at the nurses’ station is staring directly at her. It pulls her back to her mother’s funeral, a day when she felt the same silent judgment, as though unseen eyes were watching her every move. The sun had been blazing, its heat cutting through her black dress and making it almost unbearable. She had stood there, consumed by grief, when a girl her age leaned in close and whispered, “Those who take their life are never allowed to go back and see their children.”

The words pierced her. She had spun around and screamed in anguish, “You’re a liar!”

Daisy is jolted back to the present as a girl approaches her, giggling softly, almost unnervingly. The girl’s white jacket hangs loosely on her thin frame, the sleeve marked with a blue stain that looks like melted candle wax. “Come to my room,” the girl whispers, her voice low and secretive. “There’s something I want to show you.” Her eyes dart around, scanning the room nervously, like she’s guarding something precious.

“Leave her alone, Rebecca,” the receptionist says loudly, watching the interaction from behind her desk.

Daisy, distracted, notices the wide gap between the receptionist’s two upper front teeth. She wonders how much of her tongue could fit through it.

“So, your name’s Rebecca?” Daisy asks.

“You need to come to my room,” Rebecca says urgently.

Before Daisy can respond, the receptionist’s voice cuts through the air, more commanding this time. “Be a good girl and leave her alone.”

Rebecca runs down a long corridor. Within minutes, she comes back with a playful smile spreading across her face.

“I’ve got something exciting to show you,” she says, tucking a stray strand of coarse, dark hair behind her ear.

From her pocket, Rebecca pulls out a pink butterfly pop-up card and hands it to Daisy with a smile. Daisy unfolds the card and reads the text aloud: “Dream higher and higher. One day our dreams will come true.”

A tear slips down Daisy’s cheek. She quickly wipes it away with the sleeve of her worn-out sweater.

A few minutes later, Katherine and Nicole return. “Let’s get moving,” Katherine says.

“Ready?” Nicole asks. Daisy looks at her thin body, thinking how Nicole’s presence reminds her of a lone blade of grass standing resiliently after a brush fire in dry wind.

Daisy kneels down and lightly touches the knots of her laces. As she stands, a wave of light-headedness hits her. Her stomach growls faintly, reminding her she hasn’t eaten enough since yesterday, when the police forced her into the mental hospital

They walk out of the nursing station and go down a short set of steps. Daisy pauses, turns back to the door, taps the doorknob three times, whispers, “Locked tight,” and spins around with a serious look.

She catches Katherine and Nicole exchanging amused glances but says nothing. Rebecca waves from the doorway, and Daisy waves back before turning to the right and heading toward the lift.

Daisy gazes at her eight-year-old daughter, Emily, her heart pounding as she steps out of the car. The winter air stings her face with its sharp cold. Emily stands by the entrance door with another social worker who has been caring for her since yesterday. Her braids are neatly pulled back into a low ponytail. Emily’s eyelashes flutter lightly, like dying flies, as she sips from the orange juice in her hand.

The house behind Emily looks quiet, its windows reflecting the faint glow of streetlights against the dim evening sky.

“Hey, Mom,” Emily says softly, a nervous smile flickering across her face.

Daisy forces a smile in return, her fingers clutching the butterfly card Rebecca had given her. She glances at the social worker next to Emily, who gives her a small, reassuring nod.

“Shall we head inside?” Daisy asks.

Daisy feels the weight of the bag slip down her arm and readjusts it. Emily walks a few steps ahead, her shoulders sloping gently, like willow branches. Daisy notices that Emily’s shoelaces are almost untied. “Her shoelaces aren’t done up properly,” Daisy whispers to herself.

After the social workers leave, Emily taps the doorknob three times, whispers, “Locked tight,” and twirls lightly before walking toward Daisy.

“I missed you,” Daisy says, crouching down to be at eye level with her daughter.

Emily takes a small step back. “I missed you too!” she says, then runs off to her room.

Daisy heads into the bathroom. Damp towels are scattered across the floor. She lets out a sigh, bends down, and gathers them into her arms. She shoves the towels into the washing machine, but as she does, a sour odor rises from inside — yesterday’s laundry, forgotten and left inside.

Daisy pours a cup of white vinegar into the soap dispenser, hoping to remove the musty odor. She presses the button, and the machine starts whirring.

Daisy turns her attention to the sink and shower. She sprinkles cleaner over the surfaces and scrubs away the grime and soap scum with firm, determined strokes of a damp sponge. She makes sure to clean every corner before turning on the hot water, watching it rinse away the residue and swirl down the drain, like forgotten memories disappearing into the pipes.

Rita’s voice echoes in her mind, cutting through the haze of her thoughts. “Don’t do it,” Rita had said. “If you ever take that step, your child will be left with feelings of contempt, hatred, defeat. In a few years, you’ll look back and be grateful you’re still here—to witness your child’s happiness, to see her thrive in safety and security with you. Whatever is tearing you apart inside, it’s not your fault. Don’t let it win.”

“Nothing in my life has ever been my fault,” Daisy had responded bitterly.

“You’re not going to hurt your child, are you?” Rita had pressed.

“No,” Daisy had said firmly.

“And yourself?”

“No.”

“I shouldn’t have shared my thoughts with Rita,” Daisy murmurs to herself as she looks into the mirror.

She steps out of the bathroom, the soft hum of the washing machine following her. Walking down the hallway, the cool, creaky floorboards press against her bare feet. She stops in front of Emily’s closed bedroom door and knocks gently. “Are you there?”

There’s no response. Daisy turns the knob and slowly pushes the door open. “It’s time for your eye drops, honey,” she says softly.

Inside, Emily is standing by her desk, her fingers lightly tracing the edge while she flips through a colourful book, focused on its pages. The room is bigger than Daisy’s, with a large window that looks out onto the neighbour’s lush garden and shelves packed with Emily’s collection of comic books.

After tucking Emily into her bed, Daisy retreats to her own room. The clock on her nightstand reads 9:12 p.m. A flicker of movement outside the window makes her freeze, and a shudder of fear runs through her body. Her eyes widen as she sits up, staring at the window where shadows shift and move in the faint light. A deep unease weighs on her chest, pressing harder with each passing moment.

For a short time, exhaustion overtakes her, and she dozes off. But she jolts awake suddenly, gasping for air, her heart pounding hard against her ribs. She throws off the covers and crosses the room quickly.

She peers out of the window and sees the street below, faintly illuminated by the muted glow of the streetlamps. Her hand trembles as she reaches for the curtains. Slowly, she pulls them closed, shutting out the view.

Daisy steps out into the hallway and starts down the dark, narrow staircase. Each step creaks under her feet, the sound echoing in the stillness. Sweat beads along her hairline and trickles down her forehead. Damp patches form in the crooks of her knees and elbows.

She walks quickly to the front door, her steps sharp and tense. Kneeling down, she wipes the sweat from her forehead with a shaky hand before picking up Emily’s shoes. Her damp, trembling fingers thread the laces through the eyelets, one by one. She pulls them tight, crossing one lace over the other with careful precision. Forming a loop with one lace, she wraps the other around it, tucks it through, and pulls tight.

She stands up and turns the key in the lock. The metal clicks into place with a firm snap. Her father’s voice echoes in her mind, filled with regret after her mother’s suicide: “If only I had locked the door tight, she couldn’t have gotten to the gun.”

Her bare feet, cold against the wooden floor, move silently toward Emily’s bedroom. The clock on the wall ticks softly, showing 10:12 p.m. She slips into the dimly lit room, shadows stretching long across the walls.

Gently, she slides under the covers next to Emily. The child stirs slightly but does not wake. Daisy takes Emily’s small, warm hand in hers, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her chest with each breath.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Hasti Abbasi 2025