"This, too, shall pass."
— Persian Proverb
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I woke up lying on the cold floor, my cheek pressed against splinters.
No wind. No storm. No voices.
Just quiet.
Dry, suffocating quiet. Dust drifted in the shafts of pale light like falling ash. My mouth tasted like old rust.
I stood slowly, my footfalls creaked loud in the emptiness, and wandered into the bedroom.
There, resting on the bed, was my notebook.
I picked it up. The corners curled in like burnt pages, and i started flipping through its pages already yellowing at the corners.
October 5th, 2022
I think I've lost her. June looked at me like a stranger this morning.
I told her he wasn't any good.
I didn't say why.
Because how could I tell her the truth?
That I fell into his fire willingly?
My stomach twists.
---
March 23rd, 2023
He said I was the only one who saw him. Really saw him.
That he'd end it with June.
He said he's never needed anyone the way he needs me.
God help me—he'd do it for me.
The words blur. They won't sit still.
---
June 6th, 2023
He found me again. Came screaming.
Said I owed him everything. That I made him destroy it for nothing.
I said leave. He wouldn't.
We fought again. Only this time, I fought back.
There's blood everywhere. He stopped moving.
The blood won't stop.
I didn't mean to. I swear it wasn't supposed to happen.
Now I'm crying so hard I can't breathe.
My hands are starting to slightly shake.
---
March 9th, 2021
I met him. June's boyfriend.
And I swear, we had a connection…
The way he looked at me. I thought I imagined it, but...
He felt it too.
He didn't hide it.
---
I flip further.
The entries unravel erratically, scrambled. Scribbles. Dates jump: April, July, back again.
The writing decays into pleas, paranoia, madness.
Like I wrote them while terrified.
I come across some words, written boldly:
> Do not drink. It's not the pills, it's YOU.
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Panic rises intensingly in me, I felt like a kettle about to boil over.
In that moment, a crack in the ceiling of my mind opened, and I remembered.
The river.
His body.
The thud when he landed.
The messages afterward.
The therapist with the smooth voice and detached yet vaguely soft, eyes.
I had a therapist?
His face finally surfaces.
The pills.
The fear.
The cellar.
The straps.
The stench of bleach.
The hands that once touched me gently, turned fists.
The room where I woke up, strapped down.
The laughter in the walls.
The threatening messages that came from nowhere.
And now, I hear his voice, thick and close:
> "You think it was that easy to get rid of me?"
Cold fear slithers up my spine.
My legs move before my brain does.
I stand swiftly, and run.
Through the hall, past the wall with no family photo. Down the stairs that creaked.
The house was collapsing, not in wood or stone, but in meaning. Nothing made sense anymore. I slammed open the front door, and the cold hit me sharply.
Night.
Pitch black. Windless. Soundless night.
But that didn't stop me.
I ran into it.
I took a step and
someone grabbed me.
An arm, strong and rough, wrapped around my waist. Another hand clawed at my throat. I struggled, kicked, and bit.
"No!" I screamed. "Not again—"
They dragged me toward the porch's edge.
I reached back and my hand found wood. A stool. I swung it. And heard the sound as it struck. The figure grunted, loosening their grip.
I fell to the dirt, scrambled to my feet, but they grabbed my ankle.
"Let me go!..." I Kicked fiercely.
Their fingers were like ice on my skin.
Reaching blindly, i found a jagged piece of the broken stool, and rammed it hard into their chest.
It didn't pierce but it hurt.
They gasped, and reeled back.
I didn't wait.
I bolted.
Branches scraped my face. Mud grabbed at my shoes. The woods felt alive, closing in and twisting with every step I took.
I didn't look back.
Didn't dare.
I kept going, until I saw light.
A glimmer of light cut through the trees faintly.
Pulsing and moving.
Headlights.
I stumbled onto the road, my arms flailing. A truck horn blared a deep, howling moan. It's tires screamed. I turned to face the brightness, mouth open, caught between a scream and a —
———
Beep… beep… beep…
I open my eyes.
Soft light spills from the hallway.
I hear the TV downstairs is on. Static buzzes softly, but underneath it, is the sound of a truck backing up.
I rub my eyes and mutter, "Did I forget to turn the TV off yesterday…?"
I sit up in bed.
The air smells like stale coffee and toast.
A faint humming floats from downstairs.
My shirt's clean. The room's swept and the mirror is still.
My feet hit the floor.
My legs ache, and my throat is sore.
I glance at the wall.
Beneath it, scrawled faintly in pencil:
> "Don't trust her."
I don't remember writing that.
My eyes darts to the calendar, and it stares back at me.
Freshly marked.
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> DAY 1.
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There's no place like home."
— Dorothy, The Wizard of Oz