Page 95 of The Woman at the Funeral

My vision swam as a strangled sound escaped me.

“Stab her already!” a voice snarled as a knee pressed hard into my back.

There was a pinch in my arm.

Then I was swimming, drowning.

But right before unconsciousness claimed me, I had one final thought.

I knew that voice.

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Pain ice-picked behind my eyes as a drum band played through my skull.

I tried to lift my hands to press the pain away.

But my limbs felt rubbery, detached. They were useless weights at my side.

A whimper escaped me when I forced my eyes open. A choice I immediately regretted, as the brightness had the pain in my head intensifying.

I fought through it, trying to focus.

But the lights blurred into long streaks, too bright, like the world was smearing right before my eyes.

I blinked. Once. Twice. But everything went distorted—pulsing, breathing, bending inward at the corners.

Panic gripped my system. It was a tight pressure on my chest, a strangling sensation in my throat.

My heart hammered against my ribs—so fast I was sure it would give out at any second.

What was wrong with me?

I tried to sit up.

But gravity had changed the rules.

Updidn’t exist anymore.

In fact, the ground seemed to be trying to pull me down, deeper, into it.

The room around me felt stifling, the humidity making the air soupy.

But somehow, there was a cold sweat clammy on my skin, making my shirt cling to my chest and stomach.

No.

No, it wasn’t my shirt.

My gaze flew down, seeing the white shirt that wasn’t mine. Its sleeves were too long, its chest too wide.

As I looked, the buttons shifted, widened, grew irises that stared back at me.

With a startled cry, I squeezed my eyes shut.

When I opened them again, the buttons were just buttons again.

What was wrong with me?

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