Fear

50

A week went by. Not much happened in that time. But Tyler and I shared space as we had done for almost three months at this point.

It was the following Wednesday. Tyler said he was nipping out for groceries and he'd be back later. Gave me a forehead kiss as I sat on the edge of the bed and nodded. Didn't offer him anything else because I couldn't.

I heard the door lock downstairs and that was that. Alone again.

I didn't waste any time in getting moving. I saw no use in idling when there were chores to do and things to think about. So I sighed, walked into the bathroom, and turned on the light.

The bulb flickered once before settling, too bright against the tiled walls. I squinted at it, then at myself.

The mirror showed me exactly as I was now — not the girl I'd been when I first arrived here, and not the hollowed-out version that had stared back at me during the worst of it. Somewhere in between. Thin. Pale. Tired. Older around the eyes. But I still looked better than I had the last time I saw myself.

I stepped closer, bracing my hands on the edge of the sink.

Last time I'd really looked in the mirror like this, I went into manic mode. The dissociation had come too quickly, until my reflection no longer felt attached to me. I'd panicked then, heart racing, convinced I was watching a demon wear my face as she distorted and writhed behind the glass, threatening to crawl out and grab me like something from The Ring.

I'd slid down the wall, breath tearing out of my chest, hands clawing at nothing. She even spoke to me. How I conjured up that one, I'll never know. I was in the throes of real psychosis.

Now, my reflection didn't warp at all. I saw the real Emily Parker stood before me... Or at least whatever was left of me.

I stared. And my reflection stared back.

I turned slightly, my eyes then skimming over the marks across my skin. The scars were still there. Of course, they always will be. Thin white lines at my neck where Tyler's or Dylan's blade had once rested, cruel and deliberate. A few on my chest — healed, bumpy, ugly in a way no one ever prepares you for.

And my arms. God.
My arms told the story in full sentences.

They didn't hurt anymore. Not physically. And surprisingly, not emotionally either.

I felt nothing. Not revulsion. Not grief. Not anger.

Just detached and clinical awareness. Like I was examining someone else's body. Someone I knew intimately but not nearly enough.

I finished dressing, slowly. Pulled my sleeves down without thinking about it. When I caught my reflection one last time before leaving the room, I realised something that made me freeze.

I remembered everything.
Every. Single. Detail.

Every excruciating pain or drop of blood.
Every moment of fear or scream in the dark.
Every word whispered cruelly in my ear.
Every knife blade against my skin.
Every slight change in a facial expression that signalled things were about to shift — for better or worse.

The numbness wasn't forgetting, nor was it denial.
It was distance and something I'd learned more as a coping mechanism.

And somehow, I'd only just distinguished the difference.

That understanding stayed with me for the rest of the day.

I moved through the house quietly, the way I'd learned to. The routine was familiar now — breakfast, tidying, washing clothes and handwashing dishes until Tyler came back from work or wherever he disappeared to.