Fractures
702 Words
I couldn’t stop shaking.
Even after we left the basement.
Even after the door closed behind us.
Even after the daylight hit my face like proof that the world was still normal.
The box stayed locked in my bag, heavy as guilt.
We didn’t talk much on the walk back. Evan kept glancing at me like he was afraid I might vanish if he looked away for too long. I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, grounding myself in motion.
Don’t fall apart.
Not yet.
When we reached my house, I stopped at the door.
“I need to be alone,” I said.
Evan frowned. “That’s not a good idea.”
“I know,” I replied. “But I need to hear my own thoughts.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Call me. If anything feels wrong.”
Everything already felt wrong, but I nodded anyway.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
My mother wouldn’t be home until evening. I stood in the hallway, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, the distant ticking of the clock. Ordinary sounds. Safe sounds.
I dropped my bag on the floor and pulled out the box.
My hands hovered over it.
What if opening it again made things worse?
What if remembering was the mistake?
I opened it anyway.
The photographs were on top. I spread them across my bed, my breath catching as I looked at each one.
Me, asleep.
Me, walking down my street at night.
Me, standing outside Evan’s building.
Someone had been watching me.
Or… I had been watching myself.
I flipped one photo over.
A date.
A time.
All between 4 a.m. and 6 a.m.
My missing hours.
My phone buzzed.
Another message.
**Unknown Contact:** You were warned.
My chest tightened.
Me: Who are you?
Unknown Contact: You know who I am.
Me: Then say it.
Unknown Contact: I’m the version of you that remembers.
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
Me: Remembers what?
Unknown Contact: What you did.
Me: I didn’t do anything.
Unknown Contact: That’s why this is dangerous.
I dropped the phone.
“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no.”
I pressed my palms to my temples, trying to slow my breathing. This wasn’t possible. People didn’t split into versions of themselves. Memories didn’t write messages.
Unless the mind was fractured.
Unless it had to be.
I opened the recorder.
My finger hovered over the play button.
If I listened, there would be no turning back.
I pressed it.
Static. Then my voice.
Not shaking. Not scared.
Calm.
*“If you’re hearing this, it means you don’t remember again. That’s expected.”*
My stomach dropped.
“You’re not broken. You’re surviving.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“You saw something you weren’t supposed to. Someone did something they weren’t supposed to do. And your mind chose the only way out.”
My hands clenched into fists.
“You’re not dangerous. But the truth is.”
The recording ended.
I sat there for a long time, staring at nothing.
Then I noticed something I hadn’t before.
The photos weren’t all taken from the same angle.
Some were close. Too close.
Someone else had been there.
A knock sounded at my door.
I jumped.
“Mara?” my mother called. “I’m home early.”
I wiped my eyes quickly and shoved everything back into the box, hiding it under my bed just as she opened the door.
“You look pale,” she said. “Are you sick?”
I forced a smile. “Just tired.”
She studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Try to rest.”
After she left, I locked the door.
I pulled my notebook out again, flipping to a blank page.
This time, I didn’t hesitate.
If I’m erasing things, I wrote,
it’s because the truth hurts more than forgetting.
My phone buzzed one last time.
Unknown Contact: You’re not alone in this.
Unknown Contact: But you are running out of time.
I stared at the messages, a terrible realization settling in.
The missing hours were spreading.
And whatever I was protecting myself from…
was getting closer.
- Writer
