✂ 81: Depression
December, 2071: St. Mungo's
Eleven year old Macy lay in the hospital bed, curled up on her side and whining softly to herself.
I'm not dead yet. I'm not dead yet.
The doctors came and inspected her arms and hands. Her legs. Her feet. Then they drew on their little clipboards. They whispered things back and forth. They gave her medicine and told her to sleep.
"We think she's depressed," she heard them tell her parents.
"What? Depression?"
It was preposterous. She was eleven! But she was. She was depressed. Macy hated Beauxbatons. She hated it. She hated scissors. And she hated this place.