Page 71 of Lost Girl

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Here we go again.

I’ve been episode-free for over a week, allowing myself to think that maybe, just maybe the sleep paralysis was a result of the pregnancy hormones mixing with the shock of my situation.

But no—it's back, and this time, I'm not in my bed.

I’m still in London, the scenery around me proves as much, but I'm standing stock-still in front of a book shop my mum used to frequent when I was a kid. In the large window sits a telly. It’s playing the news and all around me people shuffle about, going about their business without a care in the world.

Not one of them seems concerned that I'm just standing here, completely unmoving, arms firmly at my side.

Then again, this isn't real,theyaren't real. It's all in my head.

The same head that won’t move. I can’t. Although I’m not laying down like the other occurrences, I can’t move if I tried. It’s like that same force that weighs me down is ensuring I’m stiff as a board, eyes trained firmly on the telly screen.

Where they’re showing a building that looks like my flat...

A female’s voice plays over the image, too, tunneling my hearing on the source. "Other tenants in the building say they are still shocked by the news, that their neighbor was a sweet, well-mannered woman and they don't believe she could be at fault. Her neighbor only one flat over claims he heard screams matching the timeframe of when the body would've started decomposing, and police did look into it, but officials say it just didn't pan out due to lack of evidence. They're also urging you as the public to view this investigation and all it’s moving parts without bias. While some people seem to think this is a repeat of what happened to the victim's mother over a decade ago, and that Wendy could be in life-threatening danger, until the truth comes to light, she could also still very well be a cold-blooded killer."

Then my hospital identification picture pops up on the screen and the newscaster goes on to list my physical description.

I zone out right about then.

My heart has long since plummeted, but I'm just feeling it hit. That nauseating sensation of fear roiling every bit of your stomach.

The troubling tightness in your chest.

The knot that forms in your throat.

They think I'm a killer? Me? I can't believe it. I hadn't even thought that could be a possibility until now. I was so consumed by the idea of getting out of that dungeon and simply wanting the comforts of home, that I didn’t think about what home was like nowadays. I didn’t think about what would happen as a result of Peter's body being found the way it was.

Hell, I didn’t even think that they would find it, period. The conscious half of me had completely pushed out the fact that a body decomposes once my life was on the line.

How it would look with my disappearance being a huge factor in the equation.

"It looks like you're the killer," hisses the whisper.

Oh God, no. No. Not again. The whisper is the worst part, when everything really goes awry.

It’s already bad enough.

"You can't go home, Wendy," it warns, racking a chilling shiver down my spine that quickly crashes back up in a wave, springing tears to my eyes from the force. I squeeze them shut, willing my emotions at bay, but they leak free from the sides regardless.

Breaking open the dam.

First it tells me I have to go home and now it’s warning against it.

"Who are you!" I yell, inhaling a deep, shaky breath.

Why does this keep happening to me? What does it even mean? What is wrong with me?

"You can't go home.” Another warning, the one that sets me off, wriggling to free myself.

"Who are you!" I scream, “Who are you!”

"You must stay.”

"Why won't you answer me!" I’m sobbing, trying every which way possible to find some sort of movement, but I can’t do anything except stare at that screen.

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