"Day 10?... I think it's day 10. The hallway door is gone... No, it's back. I just didn't see it.
Everything is fine.
The house is fine. I am fine. We are fine."
> "All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well."
— Julian of Norwich
.....
I wake to warmth.
Not the kind that welcomes, but the kind that suffocates. A heavy, stagnant heat clings to my skin like a fevered second layer. My sheets stick to my legs, damp and twisted, and the air tastes like dust and copper.
I blink slowly. My vision lags, and my head buzzes.
The light coming in through the window is bright and yellow. The clock on the wall reads 1:06 PM. That can't be right… Afternoon? Have I slept that long?
I push myself up, wipe my face
and freeze.
There's a mirror.
A tall, narrow one, rimmed in pale wood, standing quietly in the corner near my dresser.
Has it always been there?
I question my memory, but no answer surfaces. It doesn't feel new. It doesn't feel old. It just… is.
I step closer. The floor creaks beneath me.
At first, I see only myself...
until I catch the faintest shift in the reflection.
Not in me.
Behind me.
A pale figure.
I spin around, heart battering my ribs.
No one.
The room is empty. Silent. Still.
I look back. The mirror shows only me again, slightly distorted. My reflection leans slightly to the left, like gravity bends differently on the other side of the glass.
I reach out with trembling hands.
The glass is so cold it burns.
Colder than anything should be inside this oven of a room. It bites into my skin, and I gasp.
And when my fingertips touch it, something cracks open behind my eyes.
A memory.
Warm breath on my neck. Fingers tracing my spine.
A man...faceless, standing just over my shoulder, close enough to kiss or kill. One arm rises, slow, reaching for my throat.
The other settles on my waist, his mouth at my ear, his skin fever-hot and corpse-cold at once. His lips press against my neck, but the kiss doesn't comfort. It devours. I don't remember when it happened, or how, but I remember how it felt:
Heat. Confusion. Pleasure.
His touch lingers.
I see a bruise on my thigh I don't remember getting. Another, behind my shoulder blade, blooming violet. Pressing a hand to the curve of my neck, I feel the soreness rise again, old and new at once.
"What are you doing to me?" I whisper.
> "Are you talking to him?"
I jolt and knock over the chair.
My sister stands in the doorway, arms crossed, but her eyes are softer than yesterday. Like she pities me now, instead of fearing me.
"Who?" I ask.
She doesn't answer. Just shakes her head, like she's already given up.
.
Later, I find a notebook buried under the mattress and frame, wrapped in a frayed ribbon that smells faintly of lavender and nicotine.
I untie the ribbon and open it. The handwriting is mine, slanted, rushed. No doubt.
But the entries...
> June 5th, 202....April 23rd, 203...June 6th, 202...March 9th, 2023
I flip faster. Each page makes me breathe harder.
At the last entry, it reads:
> "Tomorrow, I will begin writing this notebook again."
I drop it, hearing a sudden sound. One from the hallway that freezes me.
My mouth goes dry.
I reach for the water on the dresser, and my eyes land on the bottle of pills.
Then I remember, I haven't taken my meds yet.
I pick up the pill bottle, my reflection watching from the dresser. I don't read the label. I don't think.
I just swallow them.
I go back to bed, reassuring myself I just need rest.
I close my eyes for just a moment.
Just a sec.
But when I open them, it's already night.
My clothes cling to my skin, heavy, and soaked. My hair sticks to my forehead. Water puddles under me, ice-cold and spreading.
I sit up, feeling my heart beating in my throat.
Water drips from my hair into my mouth.
The lights flicker. The rug beneath me is cold, and sticky.
Then I realize;
I'm sitting in the hallway.
In a pool of water.
> DAY 3
---
"Peace begins with a smile."
— Mother Teresa
"I slept through the night. I think. I feel rested, but the bed smells like rain."
.
.
I didn't sleep a wink.
How could I?
After waking up drenched in icy water, with my skin stiff and freezing.
I sit in the hallway until the next morning. Gray melts into yellow, the kind of dull afternoon glow that makes it feel like time gave up.
I don't move.
I don't trust the floor to be where it was yesterday.
The walls feel closer now. Breathing. Watching. Relearning me.
Hunger doesn't come. Neither does thirst. Just a dull ache behind my eyes, like someone drove nails into the back of my skull and hung me up like a painting.
By noon, I stand.
And my legs tremble.
I start to wander.
I pass the sitting room, and see...
Me.
Or something that wears me.
Then, she smiles.
A very broad smile.
I tense up.
Then she cries blood.
I beg my body to run, but it doesn't listen.
Maybe it's exhaustion.
Sometimes she claws at her face, like she's begging to be let out. And once...just once, she looks directly at me and mouths:
"You're not the one who survived."
And instantly, I see flashes.
Memories.
His body on mine.
The pressure of his hands, on my thighs...my neck.
His hot breath in my ear.
My back arching under his weight.
And my sister…
Her voice crackles through my skull:
> "Are you talking to him?"
She had caught me once, whispering in my room.
I turned, confused. "Who?" I muttered, feigning ignorance.
I see the old diary on my shelf.
The one with my handwriting, but don't remember writing.
Pages worn at the edges,
like it's been read
too many times.
I remember the way he looks at me—devouring. That hot-headed, possessive stare. Like if he can't have me, he'll consume me instead.
My sister's voice: "How could you?!"
Me, screaming: "Please just listen—"
Her eyes fill with betrayal. "YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE MY SISTER!!"
My lips part, but thunder cracks through the walls, so loud I feel it in my spine.
The house screams with her.
Doors slam open and shut, lightbulbs explode. Shadows dance across the walls like they're celebrating a death.
I begin to run. As fast as my legs will take me, as far as my strength will lead, until I find a room and slam the door behind me.
I curl up, shaking, my hands clamped over my ears, trying to shut out the world.
Silence.
Everything stops.
Finally, i open my eyes and glance around the room.
A child's shoe presses against my back. A scarf smells like cheap perfume. The darkness in this tiny space is louder than the storm outside.
Then the smell hits me...old rot and mildew. But there's something else. Something sweet and wrong.
Like syrup over a dead animal.
It's a child's room.
The wallpaper peels in long curls. The crib lies broken. Stuffed animals melt into the floorboards. And drawings, dozens of them cover the walls, crayon and ink and..and....
Every drawing has my name crossed out.
Some have slashes over my face.
All of them repeat the same thing, again and again:
> "day5freedomday5freedomday5…"
I turn sharply, and there she is. My sister. In the doorway. Pale and sad.
"Do you see it now?" she says. "But he's not real."
Her words resonates through me like a blade dragged across bone.
I open my mouth to scream, but thunder explodes outside, and the lights die.
The house groans again, louder this time, and I snap.
I tear through every room, every cabinet, every crawlspace. Mirror. Screaming. Clawing at the walls. Kicking at locked doors. Slamming windows that won't open.
I want out.
I want OUT.
No matter where I run, the house follows. The angles bend. The doors lead to staircases that lead to closets that lead back to the kitchen.
My breath shreds. My throat burns. My nails splinter.
I end up inside a closet, curled between coats that reek of mothballs and rust choking me.
And in the dark, I whisper, "I didn't mean to…"
Something in the corner whispers back:
"But you did."
My strength fades, and I collapse.
.
> DAY 4
————