Page 33 of Fragmented Illusions
I am curious. Terrified down to my very core, but curious, nonetheless. And I know this is not going to end well for me, but it’s too little too late.
I press my palm to my stomach as it cramps painfully and I decide to text back, to see if maybe I can get some answers. Anything is better than nothing.
Me: What do you want with me?
Unknown: That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?
My chest tightens.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Why did I think this was a good idea? Literally every single fucking person knows you don’t engage with your stalkers. That’s the number one thing youshouldn’tdo and here I am, texting them back like a dumbass.
Another vibration pulses through my palm and my eyes dart down to my screen once more.
Unknown: This will stay our little secret, understood? If you decide you want to spill, we will too.
Unknown: and you don’t want that, do you?
I instantly get the hidden meaning behind the cryptic words. I tell their secret and they will tell mine. I’m not entirely sure what I would tell anyone anyway.
Hey, I witnessed a murder on Halloween night and now two masked men are stalking me.
I scoff at myself. Yeah, no one would fucking believe me. I already tried and my parents essentially believed I was losing my mind again. Thankfully, they think I’m back to “normal” now after I convinced them it was all a nightmare I had. I told them I was confused—which didn’t take much and wasn’t exactly a stretch of the truth because I do suffer from paralyzing night terrors.
They are few and far between now with the medication, but they still occur occasionally—and always at the worst times.
Unknown: You need to learn to answer promptly, or you will get in trouble for it.
My eyes widen as I register their words. Trouble?
Me: Trouble?
Unknown: Would you like to find out? Answer the question, Fallon.
I swallow the lump pushing against my airways.
Me: Yes, I understand.
Unknown: Good.
Unknown: see you soon, pretty girl.
My phone slips through my shaky fingers and falls into my lap. I stare forward, pretending to be engaged when in reality, I’m shattering from the inside out.
The squeaking of the marker on the board from Professor Lloyd’s chicken scratch echoes in my ears. Every student’s pencil or pens scratching across their paper is magnified, along with their breathing and shuffling.
Every sound in the room is amplified, seeping into my brain, and making everything fuzzy. I’m drowning in the overload, and I can’t take it anymore.
I shoot out of my chair, yank my bag over my shoulder and dart from the room without a backwards glance. I’ll deal with the fallout later, but I can’t focus on that right now. I have to get out of here.
Out of this building. Of this college. This life.
I need an escape from own fucking body. My own mind.
