Chapter Five: The Edge of Vanishing
Felicia woke to the sound of her own heartbeat, pounding in her ears like a warning drum. The world outside her window was gray and silent, the kind of morning that felt like the pause before a storm. She moved through her house like a ghost, careful not to disturb the fragile peace that seemed to hang in the air. Lillian and Gary were still asleep, their faces soft and innocent, untouched by the nightmare that had become their mother's life.
She checked her phone—no messages, no calls, not even a spam email. The device was a useless brick, a reminder of how thoroughly she'd been cut off. She tried the landline, but it only spat static at her, the same static that haunted her every waking moment. She could feel the device inside her, humming quietly, ready to amplify the torment whenever her tormentor wished.
She made breakfast in silence, the clang of the spoon against the bowl too loud in the empty kitchen. Lillian wandered in, rubbing her eyes, and Gary followed, clutching a battered stuffed bear. Felicia smiled for them, but it felt brittle, like glass about to shatter. She helped them eat, dressed them for the day, and sent them off to school with a hug that lingered a little too long.
As soon as the door closed behind them, the voice returned. "You're slipping, Felicia. People are starting to forget you even exist. Isn't that funny?" The words slithered through her mind, oily and smug. "You could scream right now, and no one would hear you. Not a soul."
Felicia gritted her teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. She knew better than to argue with a ghost in her head. Instead, she sat at the kitchen table and opened her battered notebook. She wrote down everything she could remember from the day before—every strange look, every missed connection, every moment that felt like the world was tilting away from her.
She tried to reach out again, desperate for any sign that someone remembered her. She walked to the library and logged onto a public computer, but her accounts were locked, her passwords changed. She tried to make a new account, but the system glitched, freezing her out. The librarian watched her with wary eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. Felicia tried to explain, but the words tangled in her mouth, coming out as nonsense. The librarian shook her head and walked away.
She wandered the aisles, searching for any book that might help her understand what was happening. She found a dusty volume on electromagnetic frequencies and another on psychological warfare. She read until her eyes ached, but the answers remained out of reach. The static in her head grew louder, a chorus of whispers and jeers.
"You're wasting your time," the voice taunted. "No one's going to help you. You're all alone."
She slammed the book shut, fighting back tears. She refused to let him see her break. She left the library and wandered the streets, her mind racing. Every face she passed was a stranger, every glance a potential threat. She saw her reflection in a shop window and barely recognized herself—hollow eyes, tense shoulders, a woman on the edge of vanishing.
She bought groceries with cash, avoiding the card that no longer worked. At the checkout, the clerk scanned her items and handed her the change without a word. Felicia tried to make small talk, but the clerk just stared through her, as if she were invisible. The humiliation burned, but she forced herself to keep moving.
Back home, she found another envelope on her doorstep. Inside was a single sheet of paper, blank except for a crude drawing: a stick figure with a red X through its head. Felicia's hands shook as she tore it up and flushed it down the toilet. The message was clear—she was being erased, not just from records, but from memory itself.
She sat in the dark, clutching her knees to her chest, listening to the static and the cruel laughter that echoed in her mind. The loneliness was a physical ache, a weight that threatened to crush her. She thought of Lillian and Gary, of the life they deserved, of the mother she wanted to be. She forced herself to stand, to move, to keep fighting.
She wrote letters to her children, hiding them in places she hoped they'd find one day. She recorded videos on an old camera, speaking directly to them, telling them the truth in case her voice was ever silenced for good. She left clues, breadcrumbs, anything that might help them understand.
Every day was a battle. Every night was a test of her will. She learned to endure the pain, to outlast the voice, to hold on to the hope that somewhere, somehow, someone would hear her.
As she lay in bed that night, the static faded for a moment, replaced by a single, chilling sentence: "You're almost gone, Felicia. Just let go."
She stared into the darkness, her resolve hardening. She would not let go. She would not vanish. She would fight until her last breath, for her children, for her truth, for her very existence.
And in the silence, she whispered her promise once more:
I am still here. I am still fighting. I will not be erased.