Fear

13

It wasn't real.

That's what I wanted to believe, what I needed to believe.

I told myself that over and over, like a chant, a mantra, a lifeline. But the words didn't take.

It wasn't real. It couldn't be. If it was real, then this was my life now, and I wasn't ready to accept that.

And it's true. Part of me never has. Even writing this now.

There was a high-pitched hum from the fluorescent light above, faint but persistent. A soft, maddening buzz that gnawed at my skull with every flicker. It had been going for hours. Maybe longer. I couldn't tell anymore. Time didn't move forward. It almost didn't exist. It looped, curled back on itself like a snake eating its own tail.

Drip.

The faucet in the sink, in the counter to my left, had started leaking. A slow, rhythmic, irritating pattern. Each droplet landed with a metallic tap, echoing off the stainless steel like a metronome of madness.

Drip.

Buzz. Flicker.

I sat curled up on the table. I wasn't strapped down this time, but that didn't make me free. I pulled the thin blanket tight around my shoulders. Useless against the cold, but gave the illusion of comfort. The metal creaked every time I shifted, which wasn't often. Moving hurt.

My whole body ached.

My arms were wrapped in gauze-layers of sterile white material, stained with red blotches. The left one throbbed the most. That cut had been deeper. It wasn't a sharp pain anymore, just a dull, insistent ache that pulsed in sync with my heartbeat, as if the wound itself was alive.

I hated how the bandages made me feel damaged. My perfect soft arms that I guess I'd taken for granted - ruined. Now they were evidence.

Drip.

Then, like a cruel joke, I heard James's voice in my head. "Trauma doesn't make you damaged goods."

He meant it. He really believed that.

But lay there, wrapped in bloodied bandages, in a room that hummed and flickered and whispered its indifference to my suffering - I didn't.

Because this felt like damage. Not metaphorical. Not emotional. Real. Tangible.

Even breathing felt wrong. Every inhale was shallow, cautious, like my lungs were afraid to expand too far in case it provoked something.

Sleep would've helped, maybe. But I didn't dare close my eyes. That's when they came. Not just him, but the dreams, too. The ones that weren't dreams at all.

That was the trick, wasn't it? They'd wait for you to let your guard down. Close your eyes for just a second and then-

A sound.

I flinched at the footsteps. Quiet. Soft.

Then gone.

I stayed frozen, heart hammering, ears straining for movement.

Drip.

Flicker.

But nothing came. Just the incessant noises of the room.

And I was good at listening now. I knew how to parse silence. Knew the difference between a distant door shutting and the click of the lock being turned on my own door.

I stared down at the gauze again. My fingers twitched. Part of me wanted to tear them off, rip them away just to feel something else. Something like defiance. Just to remind me that I still had agency. That I wasn't just a puppet on a table.