“Maybe I’m confused, then. Long week, you know?” He lifts his drink in apology and walks away. I don’t move.
Dragana’s gone back to polishing glasses. The music seems louder now, vibrations from the speakers pulsing through my body, like it’s pressing in on my ears. I make it to the back cooler before my legs threaten to give out.
The metal door slams shut behind me, sealing in the cold. I press my hands to the freezer wall and focus onthe chill. Let it bite through the heat blooming in my chest. She was here. A version of me, moving, talking, pouring drinks.
And I don’t remember a fucking second of it.
I slide to the floor and breathe. My fingers tangle in my hair. The sigil burns on my wrist. Faint, but not fading. The cooler air does nothing to settle me. My skin still itches like something's crawling underneath it. The kind of feeling you get when you know something’s watching you…even if your eyes haven’t caught up to it yet. I stay sitting on the metal floor until the cold finally starts to win, biting into my bare legs and burning up through my spine. It’s the only thing that feels real.
I stand slowly, wipe my hands on my thighs even though there’s nothing on them, open the door, and step back into the world like I wasn’t just falling apart in a glorified fridge.
The bar’s quieter now. Midday lull. Dragana’s gone into the office or outside for a smoke. Jesse’s nowhere to be seen. The music has shifted to something instrumental and sad like the jukebox knows I’m spiraling.
It’s like two worlds colliding and I don’t know which one I belong in, which one I came from, or which one I created. Being two places at once, it’s like my so-called normal life continues while I get swept up in the dark. What happens when I accept the version of myself I’ve seen in the cracked mirrors, the version of me who welcomes a dance with the devil, the version with control. Will my two worlds stop coexisting and become one?
I leave without saying a word, and no one stops me. The sky’s overcast now. Wind picking up, sharp and too clean. One of those days where the air feels like it’s trying to scrub something off the world. My boots hit the sidewalk like gunshots in my ears. Every step feels like it lands just a half-second out of sync with time. Like I’m slipping. Or time is. The streetlights flicker even though it’s not dark. A woman I pass mutters something under her breath that sounds like my name, but when I turn, she’s gone.
I keep moving, hands balled in the pockets of my jacket. I’m not heading anywhere in particular. I just need the distraction of footsteps and the anchor of momentum. Something’s off about the street. Too many glances, notenough noise. It’s as if the city itself is watching, waiting to see if I catch on. And I do. I notice everything.
A little boy sitting on a bench fixes me with wide eyes until his mother tugs him away. A bus screeches to a stop, pulling up a little closer to the curb than it should, and my heart skips. I walk faster. Nearing the crosswalk, the wind shifts again, biting and unnatural. It isn’t just cold. It slips through me, settling deep, as if it carries centuries with it. Heavy, still, a chill that feels like grave soil clinging to your bones.
I freeze, right in the middle of the sidewalk. Something’s not right. The light changes. Cars move. People walk. I can’t. Because I feel it behind me. No footsteps. No sound. Just presence. Then…a hand closes around my wrist. Strong fingers, cold as marble, grip me just tightly enough to keep me from stepping forward, and I realize I was about to walk straight into traffic. A truck barrels past, close enough that the wind stings my face. If not for that hand…I whip around, heart pounding in my throat. No one’s there. No hand. No face in the crowd. Just people moving, talking, breathing, like the world didn’t just almost erase me. On the ground where I’d beenstanding? A single feather. It is an odd silver-gray color, like solidified ash, and at the tip? Blood. Fresh and wet.
I reach down. Pick it up. It’s cold. Too cold. A whisper curls behind my ear like it’s riding the wind.Not yet. I spin again.No one.I’m not alone.Not anymore.I don’t go back to Riven’s. I don’t go anywhere, really. I just walk. Block after block, letting the city swallow me, letting the sky get heavier and greyer until everything looks washed out. Colorless. Like the world’s in gray scale except for me.
I don’t know how long I wander. My feet hurt, the kind of ache that says I’ve been walking on autopilot, not noticing cracks in the sidewalk, or stoplights, or the fact that I passed the said Thai place three times now.
I end up standing in front of the pawn shop because something about the glass window pulls me. I look at it, and see nothing. No reflection.
The street behind me remains visible, along with the cars and the light. However, I’m not. Cautiously, I step forward, my reflection gradually appearing. It materializes slowly, as though delayed. When I blink, the reflectionalso blinks, but its timing is consistently a second behind. My heart starts pounding as I lean closer to the glass. My breath fogs it slightly, and that’s when I see it. The smile. Not mine. My mouth is still. Flat. The reflection’s lips are curved up, subtle and sly…knowing. I stagger back. My spine hits the cold brick of the building behind me. I breathe through my nose. Fast. Sharp. I’m not okay. And worse, I think whatever’s inside that mirror is.
I duck into the nearest café bathroom like it’ll help. The smell of cinnamon and espresso, and the scent of piss-tinged tile will anchor me. It doesn’t. The mirror in here is smaller. Lit too brightly. Cracked in one corner, like someone else came in here not that long ago and did what I’m thinking about doing. I don’t look at it right away. I stand at the sink and wash my hands twice. The water is too warm. The soap smells like industrial lemon. The paper towels shred under my grip. When I finally look up, I brace myself for something awful. But what do I see? Just me.
Hair a tangled mess of deep red waves, the color of rebellion, slight frizz curling around my ears, makeupsmudged at the corners like bruises. Eyes hazel, lined with gold and bloodshot edges. Cheekbones sharp. My mouth still swollen from the last time I kissed Riven. My skin is pale and freckled like fire was trying to leave its fingerprints on me. I’m not small, but I am soft. My curves press against the seams of this hoodie. My tits make the zipper fight for survival, and my thighs have opinions even when standing still.
People look at me like I’m too much. Too big. Too loud. Too there. I’ve never wanted to disappear. Not until now. Because the woman in the mirror? She starts to smile. And I don’t. Not even a little. My mouth stays flat. My chest is rising too fast. She’s smiling. And then she mouths something. I can’t hear it. Can’t read it. I feel it in my blood. Whatever it is, it makes my legs go weak. My knees hit the tile. I clutch the sink like it’ll keep me grounded, but the floor sways beneath me.
I blink hard. And that’s when I see behind her. Through the crack in the mirror, the spiderweb fracture, something moves. A shadow. The air ripples. The light dims. Behind her, there’s a hallway that shouldn’t exist. Carved bone walls. Smoke curling across the floor likeit’s alive. Chains dangling from somewhere above. And in the center, a symbol.
This wasn’t the spiral or any of the symbols I’ve seen previously. This was something new. Sharp. Circular. With a center that drips like a wound. The mirror starts to hum. My ears ring. Blood trickles from my nose. I stumble back. Hit the stall. The door swings open and crashes into the wall behind it. I grab the trash can and hurl. Violent. My stomach doesn’t stop twisting until I’m on my side on the tile, gasping, shaking, snot, spit, and blood running down my face like I’ve been fucking exorcised.
I don’t remember getting back up. I don’t remember leaving the café. Somehow, I’m on the street again, shivering, eyes wide, body on fire. My phone buzzes. One notification. Airdrop request. [unknown]:
“V would like to share…?”
I throw the phone into a nearby trash can and walk fast in the opposite direction. The blood hasn’t dried. I don’t care.
16
In Death’s Wake
I wake up wrong. Not the kind of wrong that comes with blood, screams, or hands that don’t feel like mine. No. This time I wake up and it’s wet. Sheets tangled between my thighs. Breathing fast. Throat dry. Skin flushed.
It takes me a second to realize that I’m not in Riven’s bed. I’m not in anyone’s bed. I’m on the couch in my apartment. Alone. Fully dressed in the hoodie and leggings from yesterday.
I remember being naked, with hands all over my body. A mouth at my throat…not biting, just grazing, and then hovering. A voice whispering things I couldn’t understand and still wanted to obey.
I sit up too fast. The whole room sways. My sketchbook is open on the coffee table. Pencil resting across the center fold. I don’t remember drawing. There, on the page, is a perfect rendering of a hand. Not mine. Long fingers. Elegant joints. Black veins curling up theforearm. There’s blood on the tip of one finger. And around it? Smudged, like I tried to erase the lines but couldn’t, are faint outlines of a throat. A jaw. My jaw.
