TEASER FOR A NEW STORY

She died with her mouth open.

Screaming, or trying to. There wasn’t much strength left to scream with as her throat burned with rot and bile and mold and other things. The stench alone had started to eat away at her senses within the first hour. Later, she had stopped noticing the smell. That terrified her more than anything.

She died clawing at the locker door with fingers already bleeding, already broken, already numb.

She died knowing no one was coming—that no one ever came.

She died in the dark, alone and afraid.

She died with her mind broken into too many pieces.

And then—

. . . . .

January 4th

6:27 a.m.

Her alarm buzzed.

Taylor jerked upright in bed, gasping like she'd just breached the surface of a freezing lake. The blankets tangled around her legs, wet against her clammy skin. 

She blinked against the pale morning light filtering through her blinds.

Her bedroom.

Her body was whole and not covered in filth. Her throat didn’t hurt. Her fingers—she turned them over slowly—were clean. Not torn and definitely not bloody. Her breathing slowed in relief.

Had she dreamed it?

She stared at her alarm clock.

6:27 a.m. An unusual time to wake up at.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a long time, hands braced on her knees, trying to regain her composure.

It had felt so real.

The locker. The smell. The taste of chemicals and filth on her tongue. Her own voice, hoarse and raw from screaming for help that never came. She could still feel it—feel it—in her muscles, in the tightness behind her ribs. Memory baked into her bones.

Almost frantically, she looked around the room. At her desk. Her dresser. The photo of her mom in its slightly cracked frame. All of it exactly where it should be. Exactly where it had always been. 

Except…

She shook her head.

She stumbled to the bathroom in a bid to distract herself, and flicked on the light. Her reflection stared back: pale, hollow-eyed, but unmarked. Touching her face with trembling fingers, her eyes searched it for bruises that weren’t there. 

Was she losing it?

Had she imagined it all?

She opened her closet. Her school uniform hung neatly, just like it always did, smelling faintly of laundry detergent.

She dressed in silence. She didn’t eat breakfast. Her dad had already left for work, apparently, judging by the note on the table:

Have a good day, kiddo. Left you a ten in the usual place. -Dad

Her hands shook as she opened the door. Cold January wind hit her face.

. . . . .

At school, nothing had changed.

And that was the worst part.

Sophia brushed past her in the hallway with a hard shoulder. Emma caught her eye and smiled, not kindly. Madison snickered at something behind Taylor’s back.

At lunch, someone spilled milk on her chair before she sat down.

“Oops,” Sophia said.

The same words and actions. The same timing. The same looks.

No, Taylor thought. This already happened.

She didn’t say it out loud.

But it kept happening exactly the same. Like she was walking through a recording. Like she’d slipped into her memories. Beat-for-beat.

Was this just a horrible déjà vu she couldn't escape, or was she actually going crazy?

Had she hallucinated the whole thing?

Was this what it felt like to lose your mind?

By the time the final bell rang, her skin itched with a crawling kind of dread. Every noise was louder. Every look was more intense. Her own heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice.

She didn’t go home right away.

She walked for blocks, not paying attention to where. She needed air. Space. A place far from the school and its cleaning chemicals and fear-ridden halls.

Eventually, she found herself under the overpass, cold concrete and the distant squeal of tires overhead.

She didn’t find a place to sit. 

She didn’t cry either, even if the need to was overwhelming. She just stood beneath it, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

A truck passed above, and she flinched as the whole structure vibrated faintly.

She remembered dying.

The choking. The screaming. The way her nails had peeled back from clawing futilely at metal. 

But her hands were fine. Her skin was unmarked except with past scars.

Still, she stood there for a long time. Minutes. Maybe an hour, maybe more. She didn’t care to check. Then she walked home in a daze, unnoticed by the world as always.

When she got home, the light was on in the kitchen. Her dad wasn’t back yet.

She locked her bedroom door, crawled into bed, and stared at the ceiling for a long time. Her thoughts ran in circles. 

When sleep finally took her, it came without dreams.

. . . . .

January 4th

6:27 a.m.

Her alarm buzzed.

Taylor jerked upright in bed, air exploding from her lungs. She hit her nightstand and knocked the clock to the floor.

The numbers flashed. The same time. 

“No,” she whispered.

She flung the covers off and stood. Her body was whole. Clean. No bruises. She opened her closet. Her school uniform hung neatly, just like it always did, smelling faintly of laundry detergent. 

She had worn it, she was sure of that. 

Footsteps pounded as she ran downstairs to the kitchen. There was a note on the table. 

Her breathing became erratic. Her hands shook. 

Have a good day, kiddo. Left you a ten in the usual place. -Dad

She stood there reading it over and over, waiting for the words to change. 

They didn’t.