He is protecting me even after death.
Perhaps if I weren’t so distracted by my own spiraling, by the different pulsating strands of light, by the injustices of this world, I might notice how Carrie is saying goodbye.
But I don’t. And when she releases me, my mind focuses elsewhere–specifically on the key William gave me. The fourth violet thread has been pulsating, matching my heart’s beat exactly. But there’s another. It is white and bright and leading out of the bathroom and directly to where I hid the key.
“Thank you.” And I mean it. I imagine she isn’t supposed to do this, I imagine she doesn’t have to be kind. She could be apathetic. She could hate me and blame me. In some ways Carrie was used against me. But instead she’s risking herself for me.
Neither Carrie nor Henrietta speak again as they collect the cleaning supplies, my dirty garments, and everything else.
“Keep your head on straight,” Henrietta advises over her shoulder.
And just like that, they are gone. My eyes scan the room, the blinding fluorescent lights catch on a lone metallic item.
A razor.
It is on the edge of the bathtub they just washed me in.
Leaning down, my hand wraps around it carefully, before exiting the washing area.
The silky pajamas have pockets, and I drop the razor inside as I make my way to where I hid the key. Outside the bathroom is essentially a locker room. It is filled with hundreds of cubbies, and I picked one far up and out of sight to place the key in.
My memory is a bit shoddy on its exact whereabouts, but I am able to use the white thread to find it. It leads me right to the key and as soon as I have it in my hand, the thread wraps around me, tying us together.
Odd.
But so is all of this. None of this is normal or okay.
These threads shouldn’t exist. Just like I shouldn’t.
Which serves to instill what I already know.
There is a reason I’m here. A reason I’m alive.
A reason for these threads.
If I haven’t escaped the loops, maybe they will lead me to how I finally can.
My attention shifts to the key.
A single word is written across it.
Master.
24
October 6th
Axel marches his way out of his house, the gun weighing heavily in his pants.
There are a hundred different ways this scenario could play out, ways that would end in his death, but he doesn’t care.
Not knowing what to expect is a difficult adjustment.
Sunday has been gone for too long. And he knows with near certainty.
She isn’t okay.
Swinging into Darius’s truck, he pulls his phone out of his pocket.
