“I'm not crazy!” Alessandra squealed at the psychotherapist assigned to her.
The walls were a sickening white, without windows, and they both sat on white chairs on the opposite sides of a white table. There was a blue tissue box on the table, and a little alarm that would issue a loud wail if the psychotherapist pressed it. But she would only press it if Alessandra showed signs of being dangerous.
“Okay, can you tell me more in detail what happened?” The psychotherapist, Martha, with blonde hair and dark glasses asked, taking notes.
“He died. His body was found, then I discovered his body wasn't his body because I groped his p***s, and realized it wasn't my man! Then he began to send me blackmailing messages, and came to my house at night when it rained, asking me questions. After tha
