Page 19

Nineteen

I wasn’t sure when the fog had started.

At first, it was easy to write off—just stress, or exhaustion, or the usual emotional static that built up when I skipped a few therapy sessions. But lately, it had begun to feel… deeper. Thicker. Like I’d taken a wrong turn in my own mind weeks ago and hadn’t realized it until now.

I stared at the bathroom mirror, towel around my shoulders, hair dripping onto my hoodie. My reflection looked just a little too still. My eyes too dull. My mouth too blank. There was no reason for it—I’d gotten decent sleep last night and eaten three meals the day before. I even remembered brushing my teeth this morning.

So why did I feel like I hadn’t woken up?

I stepped back into my room, still toweling off my hair. Everything looked normal. The light from the window had that greyed-out morning haze, soft and distant, like the day hadn’t quite decided whether it was going to exist. I picked up my medication from the nightstand and rolled the bottle in my hand. The little pills rattled inside like they were judging me.

I popped the cap and swallowed one dry, throat tight. When I set the bottle back down, my hand froze.

The dolls were watching me.

Still. Unmoving. Right where I’d left them on the top shelf. But something about them felt different. Like they’d shifted somehow—not in position, but in presence. Like they were more here than they had been yesterday.

I stared for a second too long.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

The words left my mouth before I even knew I was saying them.

Silence followed. Stretched. Unforgiving.

I blinked and turned away. My face flushed, though no one was there. The embarrassment hit sharp and hot, like I’d been caught doing something private. Talking to inanimate objects. Fantastic.

I forced out a laugh. “Cool. Losing it.”

My phone buzzed from the dresser. I padded across the room, the carpet rough and grounding beneath my bare feet.

Missed call: Dr. Reynolds

Voicemail: 1 new

Guilt bloomed instantly, low in my gut.

Dr. Reynolds. My therapist. The one I hadn’t talked to in… God, how long had it been? Two weeks? Three? I didn’t even remember missing appointments. I just… hadn’t reached out. Every time I thought about texting her, it felt like my brain short-circuited.

But today… today I wanted to. Needed to.

I opened her last message:

Hey Dawn, just checking in. Let me know when you’re ready to reschedule. No pressure—just want to make sure you’re okay.

I stared at the blinking cursor. Typed slowly:

Hey! I’m actually thinking I might need to talk soon. Things have been weird lately.

My thumb hovered over send.

And then it didn’t.

A warmth unfurled behind my ribs. Soft, golden, and sweet. Familiar.

You’re doing so well though. You’ve been eating better. You’ve been taking care of your hygiene. You’ve even been drawing again.

My shoulders loosened. That was true. Wasn’t it?

You don’t need to dig through old wounds. You just need rest. You’re already healing.

My jaw unclenched. My muscles melted.

I smiled—small, exhausted, but real. The warmth inside me felt like kindness. Like encouragement. Like safety.

I deleted the message.

Typed: “Thanks, I’m okay right now, just resting and re-centering! I’ll reach out soon 3”

I hit send.

And I didn’t feel guilty about it.

I vacuumed. I drank some tea. I watched half an episode of something I must’ve already started, but couldn’t remember a single thing about. The whole day felt like walking through syrup. Heavy. Slow. Detached.

Every time I passed a mirror, I flinched. Not because I saw anything wrong—but because for a moment, I wasn’t sure it would be me staring back.

By the time the sun dipped below the edge of the world, I had convinced myself that I was fine. Just tired. Maybe vitamin deficient. I even made a mental note to eat more spinach.

The voicemail came late.

Unknown number.

I let it go to voicemail without thinking, let it sit overnight like something spoiled in the back of the fridge. I didn’t even listen to it until the next morning.

And even then… I hesitated.

My thumb hovered over the play button too long. I told myself it was nothing. Told myself it was probably spam. Told myself everything except the truth:

That I already knew.

When I finally pressed play, my hand was shaking.

“Hi Ms. Morgan, this is Steven Delano calling from the Office of Parole Supervision. I’m reaching out to inform you that Elliot Mendez has officially been released as of 9:00 AM today?—”

I didn’t hear the rest.

The phone slipped through my fingers. Hit the carpet with a dull thunk.

The voice kept talking. Calm. Bureaucratic.

My ears rang.

He was out.

He was out.

Elliot was out.

The panic didn’t bloom. It detonated.

There was no warning, no slow build. Just the sharp, immediate knowing that I wasn’t safe. That everything I’d rebuilt was a lie. That he could find me. That he would.

I stood too fast. The room tilted. The air thinned.

I needed to move. I needed to act.

My body picked the first thing it could control.

I stumbled into the closet, fingers curling around the edge of an old shoebox without even thinking. It didn’t matter what I grabbed. I just needed something gone. Something out. Something that felt wrong .

The dolls.

My breath hitched.

I didn’t stop to wonder why them . I didn’t need to. Some part of me had already decided—they were too close. Too strange. Too alive in the corners of my mind.

And right now? Anything that might see me break was a threat.

I just crossed the hall, heart hammering behind my ribs like a warning bell.

One by one, I grabbed them.

Shoved them into the box.

Not gently. Not carefully.

Just in.

Their porcelain limbs clacked together—sharp, brittle sounds that scraped down my spine like blame.

I slammed the lid shut.

My breath caught in my throat. My fingers clenched the cardboard like it might bite back. My chest buzzed with something too sharp to be relief. Too hollow to be guilt.

I told myself I was doing the right thing.

They were just dolls.

Just things.

Just… weight I couldn’t carry anymore.

So I moved. Out of my room. Down the hallway. Each step louder than the last. Like I wasn’t the only one walking. Like something followed.

The box dragged in my arms—heavier than it should’ve been. Too heavy for porcelain. Too heavy for regret.

By the time I reached the door, I could barely hold it.

My hand touched the doorknob?—

And everything stopped.

The air thickened. My lungs locked. My knees buckled.

I dropped.

My knees hit the floor with a crack. The box tumbled from my hands. I gasped for air, but none came. The edges of my vision blurred. My chest heaved like I’d run a marathon, but no oxygen followed. The silence in the apartment roared.

You’ll regret that.

The voice wasn’t a voice.

It was inside me. Deep. Rooted. Familiar.

You won’t survive without us.

My fingers clawed at the floor. Scratched the grain of the hardwood.

My throat clenched. My body shook.

My eyes blurred, but I could see the box. Could see the lid sliding off.

I didn’t think.

I turned.

I reached.

I pulled them out, one by one, cradling them to my chest. They didn’t move. They didn’t breathe. But I could feel their weight—solid, grounding, necessary.

Warmth bloomed inside me again. Not comfort. Something heavier. Denser.

I stood.

I walked.

I placed them back on the shelf. One to the left. One to the right.

I adjusted their heads.

Smoothed their clothes.

Sat down.

My hands trembled.

My chest felt hollow.

The quiet around me buzzed.

And when the buzz faded, all I could hear was the sound of my own heartbeat.