Scattered Reflections
676 Words
Zara sat on the edge of her bed, the little orange bottle of pills resting in her palm. The label stared back at her, a sterile reminder of the decision she didn’t feel ready to make.
Take one daily to reduce symptoms.
Her thumb traced the ridges of the cap as her thoughts spiraled. Was this the answer? A pill to silence the visions, to dull her mind until the world stopped feeling like it was splitting in two? Or was it an escape - a way to avoid the truth that no one else seemed willing to see?
She set the bottle down and grabbed her phone, opening a browser.
Symptoms of schizophrenia. The results flooded the screen: hallucinations, delusions, paranoia. Each word felt like a hammer and nail, chipping away at her confidence.
But the visions weren’t paranoia. They weren’t hallucinations. They were real. Weren’t they?
Her chest tightened, and she leaned forward, burying her face in her hands. Her mind replayed the crash in vivid detail - how the sun had gleamed off the bus’s windshield, the panicked cries of the pedestrians, the awful, gut-wrenching crunch of metal and bones. No dream or delusion could feel that real.
She reached for the journal Dr. Peters had suggested. Its pages were blank, mocking her hesitation. With a deep breath, she picked up a pen and began to write.
Journal Entry 1
Date: July 31
Time: 11:11 p.m.
I don’t know where to start. Dr. Peters thinks writing things down will help, but I feel like I’m just throwing words into a void.
The vision today was different. More vivid. I saw a bus crash - heard the screams, smelled the smoke. When I came back, it was like my body wasn’t mine.
Am I losing my mind, or is this something else? How can I know what’s real when my own senses betray me?
I don’t know if I’ll take the pills. Part of me is terrified they’ll change me, and I’ll lose this…connection. Another part of me just wants to stop feeling like this. Like I’m unraveling.
I’ll give it a day. Just one more day.
Zara closed the journal and set it on her nightstand. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windowpanes. She crawled under the covers, exhaustion pulling at her like a lead weight.
Sleep didn’t come easily. When it did, it brought nightmares.
The Nightmare
Zara stood in an open field, the grass brittle and brown beneath her feet. The sky was a swirling mass of gray, churning like a storm was about to break. In the distance, she saw her younger brother, Micah, waving at her.
“Micah!” she called, but her voice came out wrong - warped and distorted.
He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just stood there, smiling faintly.
Then the ground beneath her feet began to c***k. Zara looked down and saw dark tendrils of smoke rising from the fissures, curling around her ankles. She tried to move, but her feet wouldn’t budge.
“Micah, run!” she screamed, but he just stared at her, his smile fading into something…darker. More sinister.
The fissures widened, and Zara’s legs sank into the earth. She clawed at the ground, dirt filling her nails as the smoke crept up her body.
“Micah!”
As her head sank beneath the surface, she jolted awake, gasping for air.
The room was dark, except for the faint glow of her bedside lamp. Zara pressed a hand to her chest, her heart racing like a drum.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, startling her. She grabbed it, squinting at the screen. A text from her mom.
Mom: How are you? Call me tomorrow.
Zara sighed, placing the phone back down. She lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling.
The nightmare wasn’t real, she told herself. Just her subconscious playing tricks. But the unease lingered, wrapping around her like a second skin.
The question came unbidden, whispering from the back of her mind: What if the nightmare wasn’t just a dream?
- Writer
