Page 27 of A Touch of Madness

“Everything will be better when I’m able to properly consume again,” I tell her. “You’ll see.”

She nods, solemnly, and I can’t help but feel like I’ve let her down all over again.

The hallway leading to Mr. Fallon’s office feels longer than it should, each step dragging as if my legs are wading through quicksand. I pass a few students heading in the opposite direction, their chatter fading into white noise. The world feels muffled, distant, like I’m wrapped in a weighted blanket that’s slowly suffocating me.

When I was at work earlier, the message came in, and I’ve been on pins and needles ever since, unable to concentrate on anything else.

I check the email on my phone again for the hundredth time.

Subject:Urgent:Formal Meeting Regarding Your Enrollment Status

Dear Ms. Rosenthal,

I hopethis message finds you well. I am reaching out to address an important matter regarding your enrollment at Blackthorne University.

The Office of Student Affairs has received concerning reports related to recent activity involving student records and campus facilities. Due to the nature of these concerns, it is imperative that we meet to discuss your enrollment status and clarify your involvement.

Please be advised that attendance at this meeting is mandatory. Failure to attend may result in further action, including the potential escalation of the matter to the university’s disciplinary board. If you have any questions or require accommodations, please do not hesitate to contact me directly at this email address or call the Office of Student Affairs at the number below.

Thank you for your rapt attention to this matter. We look forward to resolving this issue in a constructive manner.

Sincerely,

Trevor Hathaway

Student Guidance Counselor

Blackthorne University

The email listsa date and time as well as a phone number at the bottom, but all the words blur slightly as I read them, my heart pounding in my chest.

The last time I spoke to Mr. Fallon, it was to drop some of my classes. He’d been kind—almost too kind—assuring me that the university understood my situation. This feels… different.

The door to his office is ajar when I reach it. I knock softly, hesitating on the threshold.

“Come in,” Mr. Fallon calls.

I step inside, the scent of stale coffee and office supplies hitting me immediately. His desk is a mess of papers and manila folders, a coffee mug perched precariously close to the edge. The counselor himself looks tired, his tie slightly askew and his hair mussed like he’s been running his hands through it all morning.

“Thanks for coming in, Sylvie,” he says, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. His tone is gentle but firm, the way a disappointed parent might sound before delivering bad news.

I sit, clutching my bag in my lap. “You didn’t really give me much of a choice.”

His lips press into a thin line. “I know the timing is inconvenient, but this is an important matter. One that requires immediate attention.”

The knot in my stomach tightens. “What’s going on?” I ask, because I honestly haven’t a clue what could be so important.

He leans forward, folding his hands on the desk. “Sylvie, effective immediately, you’ve been placed on an indefinite formal suspension from Blackthorne University.”

For a moment, all I can do is stare at him. The words don’t make sense. It’s like they are all jumbled, out of place. Suspension? Indefinite? What the hell is he talking about?

“I… wait. What?” I sit up straighter and clear my through. “Why?”

He reaches for a file and opens it, flipping through a few pages before pulling one out and sliding it across the desk toward me. “The administration has reviewed evidence of you tampering with confidential student records. An office administrative assistant informed us, and security footage and keycard logs place you in the administration office late one night last week. Her story checks out.”

I pick up the paper, my hands trembling. Still images from a security camera, the timestamp glaring up at me. The girl in the photo is… me. Same messy bun, same jacket, even the same tired slouch in her shoulders. She’s walking through the dimly lit hallway, her head down, a file folder clutched in her hand. Another photo showcases me looking straight at the camera, almost like I’m posing. What sticks out the most is the glaringly obvious gold necklace around “my” neck. It’s an initial. AnS.

It’s me. Unmistakable.

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