Alister
The world above me is blurred, distorted by ripples in the water. The ceiling's lightbulb bends and twists, like a distant star, with the motion of the water.
The sounds are muffled—everything is muffled. There's the rush of water in my ears along with the faint thrum of my heartbeat pressing against my eardrums. My hair floats like dark shadows around my face, and my lungs scream. A slow, aching pressure that demands air.
I welcome it. The burn, the tightness—it's a good distraction. A fleeting moment, I know, but for now, the pain of my body fighting for oxygen is easier to endure than the chaos in my head. Alas, every time I think this will calm me, my mind betrays me.
The memories swarm.
Of the humiliation, vulnerability, hesitation, and most of all, her.
Since getting home, my thoughts have been relentless. I wanted to lose myself in work, in something routine, something productive. To finish it quickly and get rid of the rot under my skin. To cleanse my mind, body, and soul. To silence everything. To scrub her off of me. To forget her words. Her hands. Her scent. Her heat.
I surge up from the water with a gasp, coughing as air floods my lungs again. For a second, I just sit there, breathing hard, blinking against the sting behind my eyes. My arms grip the edge of the bathtub tightly.
I slick my hair back, running both hands through it until it lies flat against my skull. Then I lean back, spine arching until my head finds the edge of the tub. Cold porcelain kisses the nape of my neck as I close my eyes and exhale, trying to slow the racing in my chest.
As my hand grazes over the gem, I wince.
Even the lightest brush sends a pulse of pain through me. The skin around it is raw, inflamed, and carved with thin, jagged cuts that sting with every breath. There are scratch marks, too. Deep, uneven grooves where I clawed at it with my nails when the blade felt too slow.
My eyes shift toward the washbasin. The knife is still there—its tip stained with dried, rusty blood. Beside it, a white towel sits crumpled, soaked through with crimson.
I tried everything.
I went deeper, angling the blade inward, trying to wedge it underneath. Once, I gritted my teeth and pressed hard—so hard I felt something pop beneath the skin. But even then, the gem wouldn't budge. It just throbbed harder, like it was mocking me. Like it was alive.
No matter how precise, how brutal, how messy—I couldn't remove it.
A part of me wonders if it's not just stuck to the bone. But burrowed in deep. Threading itself through muscle and marrow like roots. If I try to cut myself to force it out, I'll end up dead.
I sigh and grab the ice pack placed on the tub's rim and press it to my face. My elbows rest on either side of the tub, arms hanging loose. The chill bites into my overheated skin, a warmth that hasn't left since the field.
"Are you done torturing yourself yet?"
Helena's voice drifts through the steam-drenched bathroom like she belongs here.
I click my tongue, eyes still closed behind the ice pack. "Do you mind?" I mutter.
Of course. Modesty means nothing to a ghost—especially not the one haunting me.
I can feel her smirk in the air before she speaks again.
"Don't worry, I've seen worse."
I lift the ice pack just enough to glare in her general direction. She stands near the sink, arms crossed.
"Though," she adds, her voice dipping into something colder, quieter, "I'm not sure this is the most vulnerable you've been."
The words strike deeper than I expect. My thoughts yank me back—to that field. Blood-soaked grass. The coppery scent of violence in the air. Corpses twisted in unnatural shapes, broken limbs jutting out like jagged branches. Their skin gray, bloated, and peeling. Their eyes lifeless. I recognized each and every one of them.
Then hands—countless hands—burst from the soil, fingers slick with blood and dirt, wrapping around my ankles, wrists, and neck, pulling me down.
And him.
The boy with a bandaged face and pale skin. His hair was a wild, tangled mess, like he'd been through a storm. One eye swollen shut, the other staring at me—not with fear or anger. Just pity.
That wasn't even the worst part.
Every time I think back to that moment, I realize I'd never known real shame until then. Not until I saw myself reduced to something so… broken. When I lost grip on reality, when I couldn't even tell what was real—I'd lost it. Completely.
Like a madman with no control.
I remember wanting to take my knife and plunge it into my ears. Not because I wanted to die, but because I needed it all to stop.
And then—she came. As I'm someone worth worrying about.
Why didn't she leave? It's what I would have done. It's what people have always done.
I squeeze my eyes shut and press the ice pack harder to my face, like it could numb the memory out of me. But it's burned in now. Permanent.
She saw me like that. And somehow, that's worse than dying.
Still, I don't know if hallucinations can be so vivid. They're supposed to be tricks of the mind—illusions, shadows cast by tired thoughts. But this? This was more than that. I felt them. The hands dragging me down, the cold breath of the dead on my neck, and the reek of rot in my nostrils.
It was like I had left one world and entered another, like stepping through a door in my own skull and finding hell on the other side.
"What's wrong with your face?" She asks again, this time with a mocking lilt, like the answer's more amusing to her than the question itself.
I sigh, letting the ice pack slide from my face and rest on my collarbone. "I think I'm sick."
She scoffs, glancing sideways toward the bathroom door like she's looking straight through it. "Yeah," she says. "I've got a pretty good idea what kind of sick you are."
I grit my teeth. "Spare me the commentary. If you're just here to be annoying, you can disappear the same way you came in."
She steps forward. "You're weak, you know that?"
My jaw tightens, but I keep my eyes closed and head tilted back.
"You've had so many chances to get rid of her. So many. But every single time, you hesitate. You freeze. You fail." Her words slice through the quiet like a blade, but they don't hit me the way she intends. From her voice, I can tell she is closer as she crouches beside the tub, making me feel a bit self-conscious about my current state.
"Even when you had that broken knife in your hand, mere inches from her body—that was your moment. But what did you do?" Her fingers ghost over the rim of the tub, barely making a sound. "You choked."
Please don't kill me for this.
The words echo in my mind. Her terrified whisper as if she knew what I was going to do yet still stupidly held on. That was the first time she had shown me fear. Given me exactly what I've wanted from her all along. Yet...I never want to hear those words again.
Her voice drops lower. "Is your resolve as weak as you are too?"
I tilt my head toward her, just enough to half-open my eyes. "More than wanting to kill her…" I say almost casually. "I'm getting more interested in why you want her dead."
For a beat, she goes still. Her red lips twitch, but she doesn't respond right away. I see the flicker of confusion in her eyes, a momentary loss of composure. "What do you mean?"
I toss the ice pack on a small nearby table next to the petals. "I'm just saying, you've been pretty pushy on the whole murdering Clara thing even before the hallucinations. Insistent. Almost like it's personal."
Her lips tighten, but she doesn't interrupt, so I press on.
"You told me before you wanted me to kill her just because you don't like her... but this—" I gesture vaguely, "—the way you're pushing and provoking me into it, makes me think there's more going on here than just some simple dislike. I'm guessing there's something else, right?"
"You know why." She says, standing back up, like it's obvious. "If one of you dies—if she dies—the curse might break. The gems might fall off. And when that happens…" She looks away, her gaze distant for a fraction of a second, like the idea stirs something deeper within her, before her focus returns to me. "It all ends. The chain. The curse. Everything."
I lean forward slightly. "Right. But let's say Clara dies. And the gems fall off. What happens to you?"
I continue, knowing she's walking a fine line. "What do you get out of this? How do you benefit when the curse is broken? What's left for you?"
She stares at me for a moment before tilting her head slightly, as if pondering something.
"Does that mean you finally decided that I'm not just a figment of your imagination?" She asks, almost playful, as she looks me up and down. "And I'm actually a ghost?"
I blink, realizing the sudden shift in the conversation. Am I still talking to a ghost, or is this just some creation my mind has conjured up?
I groan and lean back, suddenly unsure. There's an unsettling feeling crawling through me, a creeping doubt that rises like a tide. If she's not really here, if this is some part of me—some darker corner of my psyche that the gem has twisted and made real—then I'm just talking to nothing. And nothing should have this much weight.
My eyes lock with hers again, and I speak without thinking. "What would happen if I died instead?"
Her expression shifts, a flicker of uncertainty as she shrugs. "I… don't know, honestly."
I study her closely. The silence overloaded with a thousand possibilities. If she's a hallucination, nothing I say or ask should matter.
I glance down at the petals scattered across the small table, the ones I had painstakingly collected from my backseat after a certain petty person had brushed them off of herself in some childish, passive-aggressive display. Picking petals from her hair and clothes, tossing them into the space with a frustrated pout tugging at her pink lips.
I focus on them now. "If you're a hallucination," I say to the woman. "Then all you're doing is pulling at my darker thoughts. Twisting them. Encouraging me to pursue them."
Practicing again for the third time, I lift my hand slowly, concentrating hard, blocking out everything except the image of those flowers rising in the field—the exact feeling I had when I made them float before. It's subtle at first, but soon the petals begin to lift, just an inch or two, before hovering above the table. I can feel the energy pulsing through me, and I smile—not out of triumph, but from the realization of what this means.
I feel her gaze burning into the side of my face. "And if you're a ghost," I continue, "trapped in my gemstone, then you've been hiding things from me. Like this ability." I nod to the floating petals, watching them dance in the air, held up by my will. "I didn't know I could do this. You also said being near Clara triggered my hallucinations. So why did they stop after she comforted me?"
I let the petals float there, feeling the power I'm channeling through my fingertips where my nails glow silver. "And I'd guess… the reason you've been hiding things, lying to me, is because you're trying to benefit yourself in some way. You've always had a reason."
Slowly, they begin to lift further, spreading out. "But either way, whatever you are. I don't trust you, and I shouldn't listen to you. If you want me to kill Clara, then that's exactly what I absolutely won't do."
Her crimson eyes flick between the petals and me. "And what if I'm only trying to help you? To get you out of this mess? What if my advice benefits us both?"
I turn my head slightly, meeting her gaze with a smirk. "Then I'm ready to learn my lesson the hard way." I say, sternly. "I'll continue my investigation with her, see who the owner of the gems was, and we'll find the solution. Or, if there isn't one, I'll find an alternative that doesn't involve killing each other."
Suddenly, I feel a strange, unsettling pressure rise at the back of my throat. My hand instinctively goes to my mouth, but it's too late. A sharp cough breaks through, and I lean over the tub, retching violently. Blood spills from my lips, splattering onto the pristine white tiles below. My stomach churns, and for a moment, the room spins.
My hands press against the edge of the tub for support. "What the heck is this?" I rasp, wiping my mouth, still tasting the copper on my tongue. "Why am I throwing up blood?" I press my palm against my stomach, trying to still the ache. My mind races, searching for any explanation, any reason why this is happening. Is this internal bleeding?
She's standing there, watching me with that infuriatingly calm expression, almost as if she's enjoying it. "Why ask me? I thought you said you wouldn't listen to what I'd say," she remarks, her tone dripping with a hint of amusement.
I glare up at her. "You did this."
She raises an eyebrow and rolls her eyes. "Isn't it obvious? It's that power of yours. This seems like a side effect of it."
Is this the curse getting worse?
A side effect, she said. Like it's nothing. Like coughing up your insides is just part of the deal. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to breathe through the rising anger. But the truth sinks in, heavier than before.
This isn't just a cost. It's a warning.
The curse is evolving—or maybe unraveling me from the inside out. Every time I use it, this is what will happen.
My eyes lock onto the blood. It glistens on the tile, dark and vivid against the white. My mind flashes with bursts of unwanted memories. Memories of red.
The color of the thumbtacks pushed into my skin.
The color I regularly saw coming from my mouth and places in my body that throbbed in pain.
The color of the kind teacher's tie.
Suddenly, my vision flickers. I blink—and I'm no longer in the bathroom.
I'm in a hallway.
I look around, disoriented, trying to wrap my head around what's happening. From my reflection in the window, I see that I'm back to my timid kid self. I look ahead, and my eyes land on the person walking in front of me, causing me to freeze in shock.
"What's wrong?" he asks gently, his voice laced with that familiar, practiced warmth. He tilts his head, concerned—just like always. His red tie, vivid as usual.
I try to move, but my legs feel heavy. I try to yell, but no voice escapes my throat.
"Come on. Let's go into the art room, and you can tell me all about that bullying you're going through." He says politely as he steps towards me. "Let me help you."
The hallway seems to spin, and I can only hear the pounding of my heart as he approaches me.
Run.
He stands in front of me, towering with his long frame, and stretches his hand towards me.
I step back and turn around, finally managing to move my legs and try to sprint. But his wide hand grabs my arm tightly, stopping me in my tracks.
"Stop!"
The hallway shatters.
And I'm back.
Back in the bathroom. My hands braced on the tub. My breath is ragged as sweat chills my spine.
The silence is broken by a sharp ring—my phone, buzzing from the bedroom.
The woman is gone now. And the bathroom is now littered with petals everywhere, adding yet another annoying task of cleaning up. Clara would be so happy.
I force myself to move. My legs feel stiff, as though the memory has frozen them solid. I push off the tub and stagger upright. Grabbing a towel, I hastily wipe the blood from my lips, then wrap my white robe around my damp skin and cinch it tight.
I need to start expecting these visions as a regular, random occurrence. A feature of my life now until we get rid of our curse. Not a breakdown. Not an omen. Just… noise.
I have to remind myself: it's not real. It can't be real. No matter how much it looks like it, no matter how much it feels like it. It's a test. A storm I've got to learn to walk through without flinching.
I need to focus on other things—on the mission, the goal, anything—and push this to the side. If I want to move on, I have to stop letting the past win.
I limp out, still trying to shake the numbness from my limbs, and spot the phone vibrating violently on the nightstand. The screen glows against the dim light.
Lily.