after they met her

fiftyeight

i v a n a

As I opened my eyes, the room was dark. Night had already fallen, and for a moment, I felt relief.

Maybe they'd all left by now.

I dragged myself out of bed, my feet heavy, and shuffled toward the bathroom. As soon as I flicked on the light and caught sight of my reflection, a wave of disgust crashed over me.

I wanted to tear my eyes out, destroy the mirror—anything to not have to look at myself. My hands shook as I ran my fingers through my hair, desperately searching for something normal, something familiar.

"I hate him," I whispered to the empty room, my voice trembling as my anger bubbled inside me. "I hate him so much."

My eyes burned with the hot sting of tears I refused to let fall. How could he have done this to me? My hair was thin and patchy, chunks of it ripped out, the rest tangled and broken, resembling a bird's nest more than anything human.

I want my long hair back.

At the hospital, they cut it all off—to treat my wounds and even out the length. Now, I looked like a little boy.

I rummaged through the drawer until I found my hairbrush, gripping it tightly in my shaking hand.

With a sudden, violent motion, I slammed the brush into my scalp, dragging it through my leftover hair with a force that made my head ache. The bristles dug painfully into my skin as I brushed harder, pressing it deeper and deeper until it felt like I was pounding the anger out of me. My breath came out in shaky gasps, and when I finally couldn't take it anymore, I threw the brush to the floor.

I stumbled back from the mirror, my heart racing, fear creeping up from the pit of my stomach. I didn't recognize myself, and that terrified me. Wrapping my arms around myself, I dug my nails into my skin, grounding myself as best as I could.

"Everything's fine," I whispered, my voice barely above a breath. "I'm okay. I'm okay."

I nodded to myself, speaking aloud in a desperate attempt to calm down. "I just need to sleep. Sleep is good. When I sleep, I don't feel anything. I don't think anything. Just sleep."

But sleep wouldn't come again. There was this knot in my stomach, this gnawing sense of dread that twisted me up from the inside. Fear of what I'd feel, fear of the nightmares, fear of the memories. It was like a never-ending loop.

Unfortunately this was happening regularly.

Every night, the same battle with my mind. Fear of the fear, fear of being afraid again.

"I want to sleep," I murmured, clutching myself tighter.

I took a shaky breath in. Then out. I lived at night now. When everyone else was asleep, I was wide awake. And there was some kind of comfort in that. At night, I was alone. Alone was good. Alone was safe. Alone was... controllable.

When I'm alone, there's nothing unpredictable. No surprises. No one to hurt me. I've gotten used to being alone, because it's the only place I feel any sense of control.

As I stepped out of the bathroom, something shifted.

There was someone in my room.

I froze, my heart suddenly hammering in my chest.

In the dim light, I saw him.

Raymond.

He was standing there, his gaze already locked on me.

Our eyes met, and the room felt like it was closing in around me. Time seemed to stop.

I opened my mouth, and before I could even scream, he was in front of me—his hand clamped over my mouth, his eyes wide, panicked.