His words send a cold shiver down my spine. Not only because of the word itself, but the way he said it.
As if he’s proud of it.
As if it’s the right term for him.
And maybe it is? I should know.
I swallow dryly, unable to come up with a response to his revelation. So I turn away instead, facing the room that feels so eerily familiar.
Every time my eyes fall on the white sofas, the sense of déjà vu becomes so strong that it’s almost painful.
Because it’s confusing. I can feel it. I can feel that I must have been here before. I can sense myself in this room, wearing clothes and a different mind, a mind that has not been cleared of everything dear to it. I can feel something as I step closer to the center of the living room, and the reaction gets stronger the closer I get.
The leash holds me back, strained tight as the collar cuts into my neck while I stretch my arm out, going down on my knees to grant more leeway. I don’t know if he’s watching me, but either way, I don’t care. I have a goal, and I won’t stop trying for it unless he stops me physically.
But he doesn’t intervene. I neither hear nor see him as I reach forward, ignoring the collar around my neck as it chokes me to a point it becomes hard to breathe.
I don’t stop until the tips of my fingers connect with leather, until I manage to touch the sofa standing closest to me. And just as I do, I close my eyes.
I freeze, feeling the leather beneath my fingers as I descend into darkness. And just as I hoped, touch does what sight and unanswered questions couldn’t.
It guides me, leading deeper into the dark corners of my mind that hide the things I’ve been forced to forget. I’m following, walking slowly as I approach the wall that’s been in my way all too often.
But today, there’s a visible crack in it.