The silence that followed clawed at the edges of my mind.
My hands trembled.
I couldn't breathe properly. My chest rose in shallow, panicked bursts, as if I were underwater, as if the air around me had thickened into syrup. I clutched the edge of the couch and tried to still the shaking. But I couldn't.
The journal still lay open in front of me.
That entry. My words. My own handwriting—so jagged and childish, so painfully innocent. How could it be mine? How could I remember writing it and yet not remember the moment itself?
My mind—it pressed against something. A wall. Thin. Cracked.
And on the other side, something was breathing. Something old. Something afraid.
I shut my eyes tight, nails digging into my palm. "I… I know that man," I whispered. My voice felt foreign, brittle like glass underfoot. "I don't know how… but I do."
The room seemed to close in on me, suffocating, until I was drowning in my own confusion. I fought it. My chest heaved with effort, each breath a battle.
That fight… Mother… The memories splintered like shards of glass, sharp and painful.
Then, just as quickly, a wave of clarity hit me. I could see it—the man in the doorway, his dark eyes glaring, the rough voice shouting through the thin walls. The image was fractured, but it was there. I was there too—hidden, trembling beneath the window, clutching the edges of my mother's curtains as she struggled with him, her voice frantic, pleading. The smell of smoke, the deep, guttural growl of his anger, the way his footsteps echoed like thunder.
The walls pressed harder, but I pushed back.
I could hear it now. The knock on the door. The silence before the chaos. My heart skipped in my chest, the beat frenzied. My throat constricted as something broke free in my mind.
"I was hiding," I gasped, my voice cracking with the weight of the truth. "I was in the room, under the bed—I heard everything. Everything." My pulse roared in my ears. "And then… she told me to hide."
My breath caught. "She knew… She knew what he was going to do."
I opened my eyes. My hands were trembling harder now, the journal in front of me, the weight of the moment crashing down.
Mother—her words, her warnings, her hands shaking. The dread that had filled that house.
"I can't—" I closed my eyes again, the room spinning, the air so thick it almost choked me.
Jason moved first. I felt his arms around me, steady and silent, just trying to hold me together.
But I couldn't bear it.
"Don't—" I jerked away from his touch, my voice sharp, raw. "Just… leave me alone."
He froze, arms still slightly outstretched. Denise stood a few feet away, eyes locked on me, something unreadable in her gaze.
Then, gently, she reached out and touched Jason's arm.
A silent gesture.
Jason hesitated, then nodded—barely—and stepped back. His footsteps retreated, slow and reluctant. Denise lingered a moment longer, her eyes soft, searching mine like she wanted to say something. But she didn't.
She just turned and followed Jason out, pulling the door closed behind her.
And I was alone.
Just me and the journal.
And everything it had woken up.