I never planned for the last night to feel so ordinary. It started with the same restless pacing, the same twitch in my fingers, the same hollow ache behind the ribs. I’d grown used to the jitter in my hands—it was like a second heartbeat, unrhythmic and insistent. A kind of Morse code from a body begging for mercy while my mind kept demanding more.
Marjorie sat on the edge of the bed, watching me with that blend of terror and love that always made my chest tighten. She looked so small in the lamplight, her hair draped over her shoulder, her hands clasped like prayer wasn’t something she believed in but something she desperately needed anyway.
“This isn’t you,” she whispered, and the words trembled out of her. She placed a hand over my heart. “I know the real you is still in there.”
I
