Fear

38

By evening, everything felt worse.

The day had dragged by like a fever dream. I hadn't moved from the bed except to curl tighter against the headboard.

The lack of corridor noise, buzzing fluorescents, and the constant dripping tap I'd had in my room felt surreal. This room was too... too much. The soft lamp glow, the expensive rug, the heavy curtains — none of it belonged to me. None of it fit. Not in this room, not in the institution. So I started to question if this room was even in the institution at all.

I stayed curled in the duvet, the sheet smelling faintly of him, sweat and his signature cologne, and I hated that my lungs dragged it in with every breath.

I stared at the ceiling until the door opened again hours later. I didn't look at him as he walked to the foot of the bed.

"Here."

I jolted as a bundle of clothes landed on the mattress beside me.

Pyjamas. Pale grey cotton, folded but clumsy, like he'd thrown them together in haste. They were far too big for me. They smelled faintly of detergent, faintly of him.

I looked up at him slowly. Tyler stood by the dresser, his broad frame outlined by the lamplight. He didn't meet my eyes, didn't smirk or taunt like usual. His jaw was set, tight, as though he were forcing something into himself — some facsimile of normality.

"You can change in the bathroom," he muttered. His voice was flat, stripped of its usual heat. "I'll wait."

My fingers twitched against the duvet once before I forced myself to move. I gathered the clothes with unsteady hands and slid out of bed, every joint stiff, body slow. The carpet was too soft under my bare feet as I crossed to the en-suite.

—

Inside, I shut the door — no lock on it. That felt dangerous in its own way.

The bathroom light flickered overhead as he switched it on from the outside. The mirror loomed above the sink, and for too long, I just... stared.

The reflection didn't look right.

My face looked hollow, eyes too big, sunken. My lips were cracked. My skin looked waxy, unfamiliar, like a mask stretched too tight. My hair clung to my face in limp strands because it hadn't been washed in a while.

I raised a hand to touch my cheek.

It lagged.

I blinked hard, tried to reset the image, but it only got worse. Her pupils swallowed her eyes. Her teeth showed. She wasn't just smiling — she was baring them.

Then, slowly, she climbed onto the counter.

Sedation. It had to be. The drugs hadn't left me yet. I pressed my palm to my sternum, trying to slow the hammering of my heart.

'Not real. Not real. Not real!'

But the sound of nails dragging across glass scraped down my spine and the words died in my throat.

Her hands pressed against the other side of the glass, palms flat. The surface of the sink cracked like ice under her weight. My stomach gurgled, acid rising. She bent low, tilting her head in jagged angles, grin stretched too wide, gums raw and wet.

I staggered back, breath punching out in short, animal bursts. My nails scraped the porcelain of the toilet as I staggered beside it, pressing myself against the wall.

The mirror rippled like water, and then she started to crawl out, arms stretching out to grab me.

Her mouth opened in a silent laugh, and I swore I heard the brittle crack of jawbone through glass. The air tasted metallic, coppery, like blood on a bitten tongue.