Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The time after the rescue was the worst for Shauna. Everything she had built up in the wilderness was ripped away. The authority she wielded, the hunts, the rawness of survival, the control—everything slipped from her hands within seconds. She fought hard against it—hard enough to beat one of the rescuers so brutally that it was a miracle he didn’t die.

She remembered it vividly: the way his blood ran down her arms, the way he looked at her, fear etched into his eyes—fear that only pushed her to strike again. And again. And again. The smile she wore, wide and with a sinister edge to it, was something he’d never forget, for the rest of his life. Much different to the day Shauna punched the living shit out of Lottie, this was not relief, she was angry. It was that intense feeling she chased, of dominance and control that she needed, while in reality she had to faced it, that she was powerless, accept in that moment. She replayed that moment over and over in her mind, clinging to it like the last ember of wilderness before the ground was ripped out from under her feet and she was dragged back to civilization.

They chalked it up to a panic reaction after months of trauma, but the truth was, Shauna was not broken, she was just pissed she couldn’t fight them all off and stay. She wanted to hunt them down, to make the people who ripped her power away into one of her meals. Too many hands grabbed at her, at the others who tried to resist the rescuers, clawing them back to the real world.

She remembered looking into Natalie’s eyes in the helicopter that took them away—Natalie, wrapped up in a warm blanket, face pale, but no signs of guilt in her face for her betrayal. Her eyes darting out to Shauna, she knew exactly how badly Shauna wanted to kill her in that moment. Her lips formed a silent sorry from afar, she didn't feel guilty for getting them out there but for Shauna's pain and desperate act to stay. Natalie knew it was the right thing to do but she took this from her, from Lottie, from everyone that grew attached to what they experienced and not wanted to leave. Shauna wanted to end her right there, choke the life out of her. She was on the verge to fuck Nat up first; but to the demise of her last victim, the rescuer that got in her way, he gotten the heat of her anger over the loss of everything and her disgust over the team that stabbed her back planning the escape, the “rescue”. Even though it never felt like one to her.

That was the last thing she remembered before a sharp sting entered her shoulder, the injected sedatives hit her bloodstream, and consciousness slipped away, leaving her limp and powerless. She will never forget the feeling of her body going numb, limb by limb, until she could only feel her own heartbeat slowing down and her eyes falling shut. She woke up strapped to a hospital bed. At first she fought against the restraints, but it had no use, she was forcefully calmed down by medication and supervisions. A long journey of counseling, of doctors and therapy, of mending her body and mind, worn down by the rough and brutal life in the wilderness began. And endless interrogations about the crash and the missing people. She hated every minute of it.

The only moment of relief came when she heard Natalie had been arrested and thrown into rehab for illegal drug use, way to much of it. Some weird sense of karma, she thought—*of course* Natalie would crumble under the weight of it all eventually. Maybe she even regretted it, leaving the only place she had truly survived. Where she was more than the girl that assumed to have lost her virginity first and lived in a fucked up trailer park, doing nothing but drinking and smoking. Now she was losing herself, and nobody was there to help her. The team had splintered, scattered like ashes in the wind, even Travis disappeared, leaving Natalie eventually for some harder and better highs to chase, trying to run from his own demons and she was left all alone.

And Shauna relished that. The things Natalie did to herself were so much worse than anything Shauna could have done to her. The only thing that would’ve been sweeter was hunting Natalie down in the wilderness—making her a sacrifice, feeding off that *betraying bitch.*

Yeah, she knew—who the hell was she to judge someone for betrayal? But *fuck it.* Natalie took everything from her. And all those other bitches who were in on that scheme with the damn transponder, fooling her, tearing down the kingdom she built out there. The wilderness was her *everything.*

Now she was back, out of the comfort she had. Standing before the door that separated her from her childhood room—the room she had dreaded entering since she returned. She knew eventually she would have to face it. She’d been back for a while, actually. After her time in the hospital, she avoided sleeping at home. She crashed anywhere she could for as long as she was welcome, but being around others wasn’t easy either. Everything irritated her, she was used to sleeping alone, the only person she was comfortable with was gone and the thing with Melissa, the comfort, the company and intimacy they shared, was fast over. Now, she wanted space. Torn between seeking people and despising it.

Working with therapists had been a nightmare. They tried to help her with the anger issues, with the nights she woke up with an immense pulling waight of hunger. It became a habit—she’d punch anyone who was lying next to her in her sleep, sometimes even bite them. The probing questions about the time in the wilderness made everything worse. Talking about it scratched on her mind as a constant reminder of what she lost, and she forced herself to avoid speaking about what really happened out there, she never would, knowing the consequences. She forced herself to smile, to pretend that she was just another girl who survived the wild, that she wasn’t consumed with rage. That she didn’t still feel the need for raw, bloody, flesh between her teeth.

It was a hunger that had lingered ever since she forced down that first meal in the hospital—bitter and dry, crumbling on her tongue like ash. There was no thrill, no satisfaction. It wasn’t the tender, raw taste of freshly hunted meat, the rush of hot blood running down her mouth. The memory of it gnawed at her bones, a need she couldn’t satisfy.

But she kept up the facade. Kept pretending. The image of a victim. Helpless. Ordinary. But lying was nothing new to her. She’d been doing that long before the wilderness—maybe one of the only things that still tied her to the girl she used to be.

The first few weeks had been brutal. Talking to the others, making sure they kept their mouths shut about everything—it was exhausting. Some talked about going to the press, admitting to the things they did, the weaker ones, who never made it through without being pulled by the others. But they were silenced, how ever way she nedded to. She had to fight the urge to not punch her therapist in the face, to not break his nose when he got too nosy, it was a daily struggle. Same with her mother, who hovered too close, always pushing her to "come back home" or have one of those forced, *normal* conversations just so she wouldn’t look like a complete failure of a mother to the neighbors. Shauna could hardly resist the mental image of just slicing her throat mid-sentence. Or those strangers who’d stop her on the street with sad, pitying eyes, saying how *tragic* it all was. She wanted to shove a shotgun up their asses just to shut them up. She was hanging on a thread, keeping her from breaking or spilling over with rage.

But her anger had to be controlled now. She couldn’t be seen as some wild, crazy animal who barely survived and came back feral. That would land her in jail, and she couldn’t have that. Keeping a low profile was priority number one.

The hunger, she felt, lingered, tormenting her insides, she was so hungry. She found ways to manage it—buying the bloodiest, most raw-looking cuts of meat from the butcher, the kind that still clung to sinew and dripped deliciously onto the counter. But it was cold and lifeless. In her darkest moments, she even considered hunting small animals, just to feel the rush of the kill again, the warmth of fresh blood on her hands. But that was too risky—too many eyes watching her, hovering over her constantly.

As for her anger issues, she found her ways to cope. Punching her knuckles into walls when the urge got too strong, pinching the skin between her fingers until she almost drew blood—little things to keep herself grounded. Though occasional lash-outs at her mother were inevitable, and that was another reason she refused to sleep at home for those first few months. The constant eyes on her, her mother barely visited her at the hospital, since Shauna didn't open up and her mother never really knew what to say to her, it was a drag. But at home, her mother was behind every corner, her presence was overwhelming for Shauna. She avoided her mother as much as she could, what was probably better for both of them.

When she finally opened her bedroom door, nothing had changed. Everything was exactly as she left it. Her room was like a bizarre time capsule, frozen in place—filled with all the memories of a person she no longer was. Stupid, idolizing posters clung to the walls, scattered clothes lay crumpled on the floor, and bits and pieces of trinkets collected by her innocent self were tucked into corners and shelves. Trinkets from a version of her that clung to good memories like a child, desperately holding onto the few things that used to bring her joy.

And worst of all, the things she couldn’t ignore, the things that flushed her immediately with pain and discomfort—reminders of *her*... Jackie.

The pictures stuck in time, Jackie and Shauna arm in arm, smiling, laughing, carefree—a perfect painting of a perfect friendship taped onto her mirror, except for the lies and the simmering anger lurking behind Shauna’s smiles. Not every memory but enough to make it difficult to remember the times where things felt real between them. She had to look away, not just because of the photographs, but because of the reflection of herself. She couldn’t bear to look. Couldn’t bear the thought of seeing more behind the glass than just herself.

But it didn’t help. Her eyes fell to the rack of clothes, mostly things Jackie had picked out with her. Every dress, flannel, or blouse she never truly liked, but wore for *her*. Because how could she resist that smile? The one that could melt icebergs, that made her feel like she was the only person on earth Jackie saw, that effortlessly convinced her to do anything to satisfy her, to see that damn charming smile again, just a little longer. Jackie’s influence ran deep, pulling her out of her shell, giving her confidence. Shauna was sure that without Jackie, she never would have befriended Taissa, never would have joined the soccer team, never would have gone out and tried to be something more. It filled her with resentment that she forced herself into things she might have not done without Jackies influence. She blamed Jackie for always making her do things, even though she knew, she just would’ve had to say no. It didn’t matter, she pushed her away for it and started doing things behind Jackie's back. Applying for the brown university... changing her style... hanging out with others more... or the affair with Jeff.

Shauna wasn’t sure if it was hate or guilt bubbling up in her chest—or maybe both. It climbed its way up her throat, a sharp and painful sting that didn’t hurt but angered her. She pinched herself, hard, trying to focus, trying to ignore the familiar scent of Jackie’s perfume. A light and blooming smell that always seem to linger around Jackie, even in the morning when sleep hung around her and perfumes usually were worn off, it clung to her like her own natural scent, right on top of her head, it filled Shauna's room, her bed, her clothes, clinging to every surface. Jackie was *everywhere*—in every corner of Shauna’s space.

Notes they written together, either school related or stupid silly things they written down about thair favourite what nots and secrets shared only between them, written down on blank pieces of paper, nail polish they shared, Jackie’s shirts spread around her room like it was her own, shirts that were left behind when Jackie borrowed a top from Shauna and left hers like a silent claim of the space, Jackie’s brush on the dresser, the things she left behind—the shared things. Movie tickets, her lipstick, her everything... Shauna found endless reminders of her, it was overwhelming, forcing memories to surface that she desperately wanted to forget. Jackie’s presence was more dominant in this room than her own. It was suffocating. She hated it. There was barely any bit of Shauna left here, just the shadow of a person who might have once existed. Everything so sweet, something that always used to feel so natural and part of her daily life, Jackie in her room, was similar to breathing. She would just be—like she belonged there, sitting on her bed, becoming one with all the other things that brought her comfort. But now it made her sick. Jackie was gone, no more comfort left, and Shauna knew how many times she confronted Jackie, letting her mood and frustration out on her. It pissed her off. She couldn't stand herself for it nor Jackie, that Jackie let her step over her for no reason, so many times, didn't take her serious, not listening enough. Everything. Shauna hated those memories, she wanted to forget.

She couldn’t help it—her hands shot out, knocking over the rack of clothes, tearing dresses from their hangers, ripping them apart. Throwing out every bit of Jackie that lingered, with a drive to destruct and remove what ever could pull on her guilt more. Maybe if she was fast enough, she could escape what she was dreading the entire time...

*Seeing her again. Feeling her haunt her again.*

After hours of packing and purging Jackie’s remains from her room, Shauna was left with just a handful of things—fragments of herself. Small tokens of independence she had started to build when she realized she was slowly disconnecting from her best friend, when Jackie’s presence had become suffocating rather than comforting.

There were only a few things she couldn’t bring herself to throw away. The butterfly shirt she clung to since the day Jackie died, strands of Jackie’s hair she had carefully collected, a habit she didn’t quite understood she now had, and the one thing that cursed her for life—the one thing she would never get rid of, *that goddamn heart necklace.*

Shauna sat on the floor, exhausted, sweat dripping down her forehead. She was almost convinced that this was enough—that clearing the room of Jackie’s things would stop her mind from playing tricks on her. Jackie hadn’t appeared the whole time she was moving things around, even while all those memories resurfaced, dragging her through their shared moments.

Maybe her mind was done torturing her.

She laughed, bitterly, a hollow sound that echoed off the bare walls. How fucking naive did she have to be to believe that? As if she could just convince herself that the haunting was over.

Shauna closed her eyes, letting herself rest for just a moment, finally breathing in something else. The stale air of the room, her own sweat, the cheap dollar-store pine tree air freshener she had hung up in desperation—it didn’t matter. It was *something else.* Something other than *Jackie.*

She pressed her palms to the hardwood floor, feeling the grain of it against her fingertips, grounding herself in the sensation. For a brief, fleeting moment, it felt almost peaceful. But then her fingers grazed the necklace she was clutching, the sharp edge of the heart’s peak pressing into her palm. Who was she fooling, pretending she didn’t think about her constantly?

As if this were some shitty teenage rom-com where trauma melts away as soon as the protagonist has a cute little makeover. She wasn’t some feel-good character in a show. She was in ugly, brutal reality, shackled to the thoughts of her dead best friend for eternity.

And, as expected, when she opened her eyes again, she wasn’t alone. Summond like the devil with a pentagramm, or in this case, a cursed necklace and a bisexual demon as anchor.

Jackie sat on her bed, draped in elegance, like a portrait come to life. Her legs were crossed and dangling off the bed, head tilted to the side, her chestnut-blonde dyed hair framing her face perfectly, untouched by time. She looked just like she had the day they left for Nationals—whole, pristine, as if the wilderness had never touched her, never been left to freeze to death, never devoured.

Her eyes drifted around the room, taking in the bare walls, the shredded wallpaper, the discarded carpet. Her expression was unamused, her gaze sharp as it settled back on Shauna.

“How cruel,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain. “You remove everything that was even slightly interesting about your room. Seriously, Shipman?”

"Shut up. It's my room. I can do whatever the fuck I want with it." Shauna scoffed, shifting her position to turn her back on Jackie. But the moment she did, Jackie appeared right in front of her, sitting cross-legged with that same infuriating ease.

"Come on, this was *our* room, Shauna." Jackie’s voice was light, almost mocking her. "We did so much in here together, i know you remember. You and I—long midnight talks, gossiping about boys and dumb movies, our slumber party makeouts... You know, we were practically one. We designed your room together. I remember how excited you were about your own room in the attic, even though we both knew your parents shoved you up here to get you out of their hair. But we made the best of it, didn’t we?"

Jackie’s gaze swept the room, her eyes lingering on the stripped walls, the broken racks, the mess Shauna left behind. "And now you just throw away all those sweet memories... for what? You gonna pin my hair to your walls and a few bunny pictures and call it a day? What should we call it ? Shauna Shipman’s cozy retreat? Or her own personal hell. A shitman's show"

Shauna’s jaw tensed up, her teeth clenched against each other. She knew the hallucinations were just her mind playing tricks on her, echoes of her own thoughts. *What a cunt I must be, torturing myself like this,* she thought. But the words stung her regardless.

"You just want me to snap," she tried to stay calm despite her irritation, breathing in deep. "I know you’re just my fucked-up conscience trying to mess with me. I’m not going to give you that satisfaction."

She said it, but tears spilled down her cheeks anyway, seeing her was taking a toll on her mind. And Jackie’s mocking laugh only made it worse.

"Shipman, calm down," Jackie cooed. "You’re shaking. Fine, whatever—keep your new design if it’s your thing. I didn't know you hated it so much, you seemed to enjoy it so far. I fit in here better than you did anyways. You know I never wanted you to *pretend* to like things, pretend to enjoy what we created. You always had a choice to say no."

Shauna didn't need to hear what she already knew, not through the voice that was so smoothly finding it's way right into her deepest wounds and resurface them. "Just *go,* Jackie. Just fucking *go.*" Shauna’s voice cracked.

Jackie leaned in, getting closer to Shauna. But Shauna instinctively shuffled back, the hairs on her neck rising. Jackie’s expression softened, but it was worse somehow—like pity laced with poison.

"Shauna, there’s nothing that will keep me from you now." Jackie’s voice dropped to a whisper, soft and sickly sweet, right into Shauna's ear. "I know you can’t distract yourself anymore. It’s just a matter of time until you explode... and I’ll be right here to watch you."

Jackie’s hand stretched out, fingertips nearly brushing Shauna’s cheek. Shauna flinched back, stumbling, almost falling over herself to put distance between them. Her mind screamed that it wasn’t possible, it’s one of the few things her therapist teached her, that were not completley useless—Jackie couldn’t *touch* her, she wasn’t real. But still, she backed away, her breath coming out in ragged bursts.

Without another word, she bolted upright, shaking off the feeling like a spider crawling on her skin. "I’m not staying in this fucking room. It was a mistake," she hissed, marching to the door and yanking it open so hard it cracked against the wall.

"It’s not the room, Shauna," Jackie called after her, the voice impossibly haunting. A sour reminder, that she couldn’t run from her.

Shauna slammed the door behind her, the force rattling the frame. It was a desperate, pathetic attempt to keep in what was lurking behind it. But she knew better.

Once she was out of the room, Shauna muttered under her breath, "I need to get out of this goddamn house." She stormed down the stairs, her footsteps heavy and sharp against the hardwood, brushing past her mother without so much as a glance, hoping she could avoid another unwanted interaction. At least, she *tried* to.

"Where are you going?" Her mother’s voice called out from behind her. Shauna stopped, her shoulders stiffening, and turned around to face her.

"Out," she replied, short and cold, hoping that would be enough. She just needed to get out, to breathe something that wasn’t stale with Jackie's memories.

"I saw you throwing out all that stuff from your room," her mother continued, voice hesitant, probing. "Is everything alright?"

Shauna felt it again, the urge to maybe just back out without another word or something more drastic, irritation already clawing at her from her earlier encounter with Jackie’s ghost. The last thing she needed was her mother snooping around, picking at her like a vulture. "I’m fine. I just need to get outside."

"I know it must be hard... with all the things from Jackie... i just don't think you should do such things alone."

The name hit her like a punch to the gut. Shauna's voice cutting through the air like a blade. "DON’T mention her name. I know what i'm doing."

Her eyes flickered back to the attic stairs, half-expecting to see Jackie standing there, that perfect smile plastered on her face, mocking her. Her mother took a step back, the look in Shauna’s eyes furious and twitching from left to right, almost like she was possessed. It scared her mother, interacting with Shauna was already hard but moments like these, left her even more puzzled but mostly, intimidated.

"Don’t stay out too late, then," her mother said, her voice smaller now, anxious and brittle. Probably just wanting to escape the situation—hoping Shauna’s therapist would handle what ever was going on with Shauna in the next session. She always made sure to mention every detail of Shauna's behaviour to him, like a spy, waiting to tell on her.

Shauna’s stare was ice. "Don’t act like you care, Deborah, go be useless somewhere else." She dismissed her motther, barely any respect for her authority nor achknowleding the fact she was supposed to be feeling uncomfortable using such a tone toward her parent, at least in a normal setting a child would.

Her mother flinched but said nothing, afraid to make it worse. Shauna didn’t wait for a reply. She grabbed her jacket, threw it over her shoulders, and left the house without another word.

*Fucking pretend everything is normal, like always.* she thought bitterly as she stepped out into the cold air. She hated that she had to pretend like she was just some normal kid with curfews and rules, like her mother’s concern was genuine and not just another layer of bullshit to make herself look good. A performance for the neighbors, for the doctors, or to convince herself that she actually cared about Shauna. *Like mother, like daughter,* she thought, lips curling into a humorless smile. Two manipulative bitches playing their little roles.

Shauna lingered for a moment, hand still on the doorknob. But the echo of Jackie’s laugh behind her pushed her out even more. She shut the door firmly, exhaling deeply.

She pulled out her phone—the one she got when she returned. It still felt foreign in her hands, like something that didn’t quite belong to her. She used to enjoy long talks on the phone with Jackie, if they didn’t hung out with each other all the time already, but the thrill of hanging on a call for hours was burned out, since there wasn’t anyone left she could endure talking to for long anyways. Her mother insisted she carry it "for emergencies," as if this little piece of technology would have saved them from the plane crash. Shauna nearly laughed at the thought. It was just another way to be monitored, controlled. But for moments like this, it had its use.

She looked through her contacts. *Jeff.*

The idea of reaching out to him crossed her mind, but she hesitated. Ever since she saw him at the hospital, it had been unbearable. He’d asked her a million questions about Jackie—where she was, what had happened, why Shauna couldn’t remember everything. *PTSD. Memory loss.* That was the excuse she fed him. It was the perfect answer, really. It worked on reporters, doctors, family, even the classmates who filtered through her hospital room one by one, offering condolences with hollow eyes.

But Jeff… she could still see the way his face crumbled, with every detail she told him about Jackie’s death. How many times did he replay it in his mind? And Shauna made sure he believed it—she told him Jackie died the day of the crash. Instantly. It was the least awful way she could make people think about Jackie’s end.

She hated it. The attention he gave Jackie even after her death. It made her want to hurt herself, hurt him, for making her feel that way. When they first met again, he seemed like a stranger—someone she barely recognized. Something about Jackie’s death and him being single now stripped away the passion she once felt for him. The edge was gone, dulled. But she needed *something* to hold onto, and Jeff was easy to control. But it wasn’t the same.

He was so weak. Weaker than she remembered. She despised it. But it reminded her of Jackie too—*that softness.* She needed him in some way, even if she hated admitting it. He was the first person she stayed with after her time in the hospital. It didn’t last long, though. Jackie lingered in every corner, thoughts about how Jackie used to be here, laying where Shauna was laying now, images of her with him trapped in his sheets, her name hidden in every pause of their conversations. Shauna couldn't shake it off, didn't want thoughts of Jackie and Jeff together in her mind constantly. Not when she was always imagining to be her, wishing things to have been different. She knew she was longing for her more than Jeff did, he was over Jackie too fast, she was still clinging to her while being in his arms. Shauna could have sworn one night she saw her—*Jackie*—sitting right between them as they tried to be intimate again.

Jeff claimed he didn’t take it personally when she shoved him away that night, but she knew he was hurt. It was written all over his face. But as much as she cared, she was dealing with her own version of hell. Her own ghosts. It didn’t take long before she couldn’t stand being around him anymore. She broke things off, told him it was for the best. *For both of us.*

He hadn’t taken it well. Not at all. But she told herself he’d get over it. He’d have to. Her list of regrets was long enough; one more wouldn’t make much of a difference. But he was definetely the last person she should be calling right now.

She searched further through her phone contacts, though there weren’t many—mostly because she didn’t want to be reachable by too many people. It was just a couple of names from the team and her mother. She had Lottie’s number too, but there was no use trying to reach her.

Lottie came back *broken*. Her mind wasn’t necessarily shattered, but it was tangled—wrapped up in dreams, visions, and whispers of the wilderness. And the *cult*—though Lottie would never call it that. To her, the rituals, the symbols, the whispers of the woods—it was all real, infact most believed it, what happened between the bear Lottie tamed for their food and Javi’s reappearance, it was all real. More real than anything else. Being apart from it took something vital from her. She clung to the memories, the voices, the control they held in the wilderness like it was her lifeline. Shauna could almost understand—wanting to hold on to the power they once had, the stability of knowing exactly who you were in the pecking order.

Lottie was stamped as schizophrenic and sent away. Her father struggled with it, unable to comprehend the daughter who came back to him, while her mother—though more understanding—agreed that it was for the best to get her professional help. They tried everything to “cure” her visions, pulling her out of the wilderness with electro shocks and high doses of medication designed to keep her mind dull and quiet.

Now, she was completely out of reach, locked away in some facility, and Shauna saw no point in trying to make contact. Lottie had sent a letter once, a strange, looping handwriting scrawled across the paper, saying she felt better now, that she needed time to adjust, to reconnect with herself. But even in those words, there were hints of the wilderness still clinging to her thoughts. The shared bond was there, untouched by time. Shauna knew that the things Lottie was clinging to, would always stay with her. Lottie would understand her the most right now probably but she didn't even know how to contact her. She was not allowed to communicate with anyone from the team, the parents to afraid it would drag Lotties mind back to the visions.

Shauna did feel bad for her in some way; after all, Lottie was one of the few who *wanted* to stay in the wilderness with her. But here they were—forced back into a world they never wanted.

In conclusion, Lottie was not an option to call.

She stopped at Misty’s number, her finger hovering over the call button. The list of friends was getting painfully shorter. For just a second, she almost considered it. Her mother had been the one to save Misty’s number on the phone, a suggestion from her therapist—something about reconnecting with people who shared her trauma, easing her back into socializing through "small steps."

But Misty Quigley was the last person on earth Shauna wanted to reconnect with. Not only had she been part of the scheme that led to their rescue—*the betrayal*—but she was also the most insufferable of them all. Misty had wanted contact *immediately*, visiting Shauna in the hospital as soon as she was allowed. Or so she’d been told—Shauna was mostly passed out or sedated during those early visits.

Apparently, Misty had been insistent about meeting up after Shauna got discharged, but Shauna shut that down without hesitation. The hospital visits had been tolerated only because there were too many eyes around, too many people watching. Shauna had to *play nice*. Now that she was out, Misty was firmly locked out of her life.

Her finger hovered a moment longer, and the fleeting thought of calling Misty dissolved with a shudder. Her mind flashed back to the look on Misty’s face the last time they spoke—when Misty had practically *begged* Shauna to stay with her after she left the hospital. *"I can take care of you,"* she had said with that unnerving grin, *"Look after you. Wash you…feed you."*

A chill ran down Shauna’s spine, and she almost gagged at the memory. The idea of Misty’s hands anywhere near her made her skin crawl. Her finger dropped away from the call button, and she tapped right past the name without a second thought.

Her eyes locked onto Taissa's number, her mind following instinctively. She called it right away, her thumb pressing the button before she could second-guess it. As the phone rang, she moved toward her truck, the thought of her mother coming out to drag her back into that haunted house urging her forward. She slipped inside, slamming the door shut just as the voice on the other end picked up.

*"Hey, Shauna. It’s pretty late. What’s going on?"*

Shauna exhaled, the tension in her shoulders unwinding just slightly. Just hearing someone else’s voice—someone not tied to that place—was enough to ground her. She buckled her seatbelt, holding the phone close.

*"Hey, I really need a place to crash tonight. I tried, going back in… you know. But I can’t even sit down. She’s everywhere…"*

There was a long pause on the other end, and with every second that passed, Shauna’s hope dwindled that she would find a place to stay for tonight. Finally, the voice returned, softer, almost reluctant.

*"Look, I get how you feel and that you’re afraid… but I can’t let you stay here again."*

Shauna’s heart sank, her grip tightening on the steering wheel.

*"After last time… you fucking bit me in your sleep. Which, by the way, I’m still holding a grudge for. But mostly, my parents think, considering everything that happened, it’s not good for my mental health—or my future—to keep staying in contact like this. I mean i would never stop talking to you but sleepovers are not an option for a while."*

Shauna didn’t care much about staying in contact with most people, but she *needed* an escape.

*"Please, Tai,"* she said, her voice cracking just slightly, vulnerability seeping through. For a moment, there was silence again—nothing but the static hum of the line. Kept her on edge, making her want to beg, thinking it could change Tai's decision.

*"Shauna... this isn’t working out. I’m dealing with shit too. They’re forcing me back to school, piling on all these extra activities. I’m stressed. I miss Van, so much. They won't let me see her either. I can’t go anywhere. Eventually... I have to move on with my life. And so do you. You need to let go of Jackie and... I don’t know, find peace?"*

Shauna’s fingers wrapped tight around the steering wheel, her knuckles whitening. *Peace.* How fucking naive. The idea that Tai could just move on—that *any* of them could just move on—as if what happened out there could be erased with enough therapy and scheduled activities.

*"Bullshit,"* Shauna spat, her voice shaking with frustration. *"You can’t tell me you ate people and fucking dirt and whatever the hell else, and now you’re pretending you’re normal. And you have the audacity to tell me to do the same? Fuck you."*

Her voice was raw, draped in anger and disbelief. *"I thought if anyone, I could count on you. You OWE me after everything you pulled with Nat, with Misty, all of you. You know what? Fuck You. I don't need you. Or anyone else. I hope you fucking suffer."*

She didn’t wait for a response. Her thumb jabbed the end call button, and she hurled the phone into the backseat, the crash of it hitting the upholstery barely satisfying. With a scream of rage, she slammed her hands against the steering wheel, the sound echoing in the confined space of the truck. "FUCK"

Without another thought, she twisted the key, the engine roared to life, and she tore out of the driveway, gravel spitting up behind her as she sped into the night.

Shauna drove. Not for long, just enough to get some distance between her and the place she didn't quite call home anymore. Everyone let her down somehow—it was a cycle of disappointment that never seemed to end. She needed something, anything, to get her mind off it. She pulled into the nearest drugstore parking lot. She got out, entered the store, the bell above the door jingling as she stepped inside, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. It was a small store with no other person around than the shop owner behind the counter, nodding his head in acknowledgment before turning around and focusing on filling the back of the counter with cigarettes.

She didn’t browse. She just wanted to get wasted, something to knock herself out with and forget about this messed up day. She just grabbed the first bottle of alcohol that looked strong enough to drown out the noise. Was it whiskey? Cheap vodka? She didn’t care. The label was faded, the glass cool and heavy in her grip. It was the biggest bottle she could afford, yanking it off the shelf like it was hers by right.

She moved toward the counter, but then she stopped, her eyes narrowing. *Why the fuck should I pay for this?* she thought, fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle. *I want a drink, I get a drink.* At least one rule tonight she didn't feel like following. Just a small act out of the regular.

And she walked right out.

The store owner’s shout came half a second too late, as he turned to see her take off with the bottle, his footsteps heavy and stumbling behind her as she popped the cap off the bottle and took a long, burning gulp. He was yelling, red-faced and panting, as she slid into the driver’s seat of her truck and slammed the door shut.

She laughed—actually laughed—as she locked eyes with him through the window, his fists slamming against the glass. A tiny man desperatley trying to protect a stupid little bottle of alcohol as if it was his most precious possession. *Pathetic.* She thought. He was screaming something, spitting out curses, but it didn’t matter. She just twisted the key, the engine roared, and she peeled out of the lot, the old man running after her, stumbling over the pavement like a lunatic. She just laughed and drove.

*Fuck that asshole. Fuck this store. Fuck this town.*

She tossed back another swig, the burn tracing fire down her throat as she drove. She didn’t look back, just kept drinking and driving, the lines on the road blurring and stretching into one long, endless path. She had no destination. She just drove—further and further down any road that stretched out ahead of her. Her phone buzzed in the backseat, vibrating against the leather, but she ignored it. A siren wailed in the distance, faint and fading, but she couldn’t tell if it was meant for her or someone else. Not that she cared. *Let them come.*

But after a while, she figured getting somewhere hidden might be a good idea. Dealing with cops and giving them a reason to think she has lost it, crazy wilderness lady, that would end up in the news, wasn’t something she was looking forward to. She grunted, *again,* something she had to obey. Laws, keeping her in check like everybody else lately.The first place that came to mind was the lake. It was out of the way, tucked behind wild growth and old trees. You could park there, disappear for a while, let the world forget you existed. And if there were cops looking for a thief? Well, they wouldn’t find her.

The lake was… well, it was *their* place. Hers and Jackie’s. But then again, there wasn’t much of anywhere that wasn’t. Jackie was painted across this town like graffiti on an abandoned building, impossible to scrub away. Shauna knew it would hurt—going there. But at this point, *what didn’t?*

She took another long drink, the alcohol sending fire through her veins as she pulled off the main road, winding through the familiar path toward the lake. The buzz in her head was louder now, mixing with the adrenaline still rushing through her veins.

Shauna parked her truck deep in the brush, hidden by overgrown branches and wild growth. The phone was still buzzing, still vibrating its pathetic cries for attention from the seat behind her. She left it there, the glow of the screen casting shadows over the leather, ignored. It wasn’t important. Nothing that existed in that world was important right now.

She grabbed the bottle and her keys—nothing else—and stepped out, slamming the door behind her. The air was crisp, biting at her skin, but she ignored it. She moved toward the lake, the trees whispering around her, the brush scratching at her legs as she made her way forward. She didn’t stumble. She didn’t falter. She knew this path like the back of her hand, drunk or not.

And if Jackie was waiting for her there?

Well.

At least she brought something to drink.

She reached a small, secluded area they used to hang out at. It was tucked away by the edge of the lake, a shallow dip in the grass that formed a near-perfect circle—ideal for picnics and whispered conversations that felt like secrets shared with the water. Shauna lowered herself down right at the water’s edge, her feet dangling just above the surface. She took a long pull from the bottle, the burn of alcohol chasing away the lingering cold in her chest.

Little ripples moved across the lake, catching her attention every now and then—fish, maybe, or some other small creatures skimming the surface. She laughed to herself, a hollow, bitter sound.

*"No worries,"* she called out to the water, laughing mockingly to herself, her words came out slurred already. *"I’m not hungry. Y'all may live tonight."*

It was as if she imagined the entire ecosystem around the lake quivering in fear, holding its breath, waiting for her to grab something from the water and rip its head off if she felt like it. She snorted. *Not tonight.*

She drank deeper, feeling her head go lighter, the weight of it all slipping off her shoulders. The bottle wobbled in her hand as she kicked off her shoes and peeled away her socks, needing to feel something, chasing a sensation on her skin. The cold water lapped at her feet when she dipped them in, sending a sharp thrill up her legs. It wasn’t as cold as she expected. Not even close to the bone-chilling ice of the lake in the wilderness. But she shivered regardless.

She remembered the time she looked down at her feet back then—blue and stiff, almost frozen solid. She’d stared at them, half-wondering if frostbite would claim them, if she’d wake up one day and they’d just be...gone, like… her. A familiar face popping into her mind, Jackie's frozen solid expression. She shook that image off with another sip, patting the wet surface with her toes. This water, the gentle cool of it, it was nothing. No wonder Jackie sometimes dared to dive in, shrieking as she splashed around, only to flinch and whine about *bugs* and *algae* brushing against her skin.

Shauna couldn’t help but smile at the memory. A welcome replacement for the dark ones she couldn’t control to resurface. She closed her eyes and could see it before her. Jackie flailing in the water, waving her hands dramatically if so much as a leaf touched her leg. Screaming out in disgust, forcing Shauna to remove it or clean her off of it, not that Shauna minded, even if she rolled her eyes at the ridiculousness of Jackie's act. But it was those rare moments—when Jeff wasn’t around, when it was just the two of them by the lake—that Shauna remembered best. Those moments felt real, untouched by the performative bullshit that followed Jackie everywhere. Just them, and the water, and the sun that sometimes caught in Jackie’s face, enhancing the slight green colour around the hazel brown in her eyes. Sometimes, Shauna caught herself starring at her for a little to long before Jackie noticed. And Jackie didn’t pull away from Shauna’s gaze but met hers with the same softness. Rare memories like these, reminded Shauna of the times things were easier, before the jealousy… the resentment.

Shauna let her feet sway back and forth, the water lapping over her ankles, and she took another sip from the bottle. She could still feel the way her eyes lingered on Jackie in those moments, the way she drank her in like she was the most beautiful thing Shauna had ever seen. But Jackie had a habit of interrupting moments like these eventually—always *had* to fill the silence with something trivial, some remark about Jeff or practice or how her mom would kill her if she found out she was ditching her chores.

Shauna never understood that about her—Jackie’s inability to just *be*. The constant need to fill every quiet moment with noise, with distractions, as if silence was something that needed to be strangled out of existence. or maybe trying to hide something else, a feeling coming up when things got to tender, to close. It was infuriating.

The water splashed around her feet as she kicked it, shattering the fragile surface. The memory broke apart with it, fragments sinking beneath the waves on the water.

She shifted, moving her feet deeper into the water, knee-deep now, the chill creeping up her legs. The wetness soaked into her pants, but she didn’t care. Little unseen creatures brushed against her skin beneath the surface. She even considered going in fully, just submerging herself. Seeking out a feeling that the water left on her skin, maybe out of being drunk or maybe because she felt more alive, seeking a dangerous thrill. But she knew—she *knew*—that if she did, she might never come back up. She’d be pulled down by the weight of her thoughts, dragged to the bottom by memories that clung to her like anchors.

Not that she hadn’t thought about it before. Maybe it would be a relief—a sweet, final release. The thought had grown roots in her mind, spreading slowly but surely, entangling itself with every sleepless night and every haunting whisper of Jackie in her ear. She took another long drink, tipping the bottle back until it was half-empty, then tossed it aside. It rolled a bit, clinking softly against the stones before coming to a stop. The burn of the alcohol had faded; it had lost its taste. She was drunk enough already.

Her gaze returned to the water, fixated on the way it grew darker toward the center, a yawning abyss of blackness. *What if I just leaned in?* she thought, her body swaying slightly. *What if I just... let it take me?* She imagined it: her body slipping beneath the surface, the icy grip of the water pulling her down, down, down—until everything went quiet.

Wouldn’t that be nice? Just to *sink*? To find peace.

Her body leaned forward, almost unconsciously, her head and shoulders following the gentle pull of the water. Her bottom slipped on the damp grass, inching her closer to the edge. The thought whispered to her, seductive and sweet: *If I could just see… if there is something down there… something like mercy.*

Her head spun, a grin spreading across her face, wide and wild. *Consumed by the dark... or glidding into the arms of the one she was seeking to find on the other side* She wasn’t sure if that was her mind playing tricks or if it was some deeper truth clawing its way to the surface, justifying her need to drown. She imagined it enough times, once she was gone, they would be together again.

Her fingers gripped the mud at the edge of the lake, dirt clinging to her palms. She leaned further, eyes fixed on the water’s surface as if it might reveal its secrets if she just stared long enough. The surface moved slightly, distorting her reflection—her face stretched and twisted, eyes wide and dark. She didn’t pull back. She leaned closer, wanting to see, needing to know if the void would take her to freedom.

A hand appeared on her shoulder. It wasn’t pulling her back, just resting there, light as a whisper. She leaned back enough to be safe from falling, her hands gripped the grass tighter again, the pressure on her shoulder grounding her just enough. "I knew you’d eventually appear," she muttered, her eyes flicking toward the bottle just out of reach. As if she was expecting to be stopped, was her reaction calm.

"What are you doing, Shauna?" The voice was soft, familiar, laced with concern. "Come on, move away from the water. You’re drunk. You’re gonna drown."

"That’s the point," Shauna replied, her voice sharp and dismissive. Her gaze stayed locked back on the water, the endless black that seemed to stretch out infinitely before her. The voice scoffed, a sound that made Shauna’s jaw tighten.

"You don’t want to drown. You know that."

"I’m not sure," Shauna whispered, her eyes focused on the deep dark. "What if I do? What if I want to? At least I’d finally be rid of you, wouldn’t I?"

Her head turned slowly, almost unwillingly, and there she was—Jackie. Standing behind her with crossed arms, her expression weary and disapproving, like she’d been watching Shauna make bad decisions her whole life. Shauna pushed herself up higher on the grass, swaying slightly as she stood. "I can handle myself, thank you very much," she slurred, brushing off Jackies words with a dismissive turn. "Just... be here. Silent. If you *have* to be here. I'll just pretend you're not."

Jackie didn’t move. Her arms stayed crossed, her eyes watching every stumble, every sway. Shauna staggered over to the bottle and scooped it up, nearly toppling forward in the process. Jackie stepped closer, as if to try to steady her, but Shauna jerked back, waving her off. "What are you, stupid?" she snapped. "It’s not like you could actually catch me if I fell. What are you gonna do, Jackie? Magically stop me from splitting my skull open? You're just a hallucination, or ghost or what ever you are. Not MY Jackie."

Jackie’s gaze hardened, and she folded her arms again, tighter, her fingers digging into her own elbows. For a moment she was looking hurt but keeping her assertive-annoyed stance. "Come on, Shauna. Get in the truck. Sleep it off and drive home," she sounded almost pleading.

"No," Shauna spat, her grip tightening around the bottle. She brought it back to her lips, chugging defiantly. Jackie reached out, fingers trying to brush against the glass. Shauna laughed, stumbling back a step. "Look at you," she sneered. "You really were never the smartest, you know that?" Mocking Jackies try to take the bottle from her.

Jackie sighed, her eyes following the bottle with a look of resignation. "That’s enough," she said flatly. And before Shauna could even blink, Jackie’s hand shot out, gripped the neck of the bottle, and with one swift motion, hurled it into the lake. It shattered the surface with a splash, bobbing briefly before vanishing into the murky blackness.

Shauna froze. Her eyes went wide, looking between Jackie and her now smug face and the lake that devoured the bottle completely. "What the fuck..." she whispered, stumbling back a step. "How did you just do that?" Her hand shot up to her forehead, fingertips searching for a fever, some rational explanation for what she’d just seen. "I must be drunk out of my fucking mind right now." She stared at Jackie, disbelief plastered across her face. "I think I’m losing it," she breathed, voice cracking at the edges.

Jackie just stood there, her eyes locked onto Shauna’s, couldn't help but grin. "Don’t be so dramatic," she said smoothly. "I just helped you not die of alcohol poisoning tonight. Now get in the truck," she demanded, her voice back to a firm one, layered with frustration.

Shauna shook her head, pacing, her boots scuffing against the damp grass. "No, you don’t get it," she exclaimed irritated. "I think I’m finally... I’m finally fucking losing it." Her breath came out ragged, her hands trembling as she raked them through her hair.

Jackie watched her silently for a moment, then stepped forward. Her hands reached out, firm but gentle, resting on Shauna’s shoulders. The touch was real—solid and unmistakable. It sent a chill down Shauna’s spine, locking her in place.

"It’s not the first time you’ve experienced this, Shauna, why are you so surprised?" Jackie's voice almost soothing. "Relax."

And Shauna could *feel it*. Not just the weight, but the *cold*—a chill that seeped through the fabric of her flannel and spread across her skin. Her mind screamed that it wasn’t possible, that Jackie was just a manifestation of her broken mind. But this... this was different. Her shoulders stiffened under the grip, and she stared wide-eyed at the girl in front of her.

Jackie’s hands didn’t leave her shoulders. The pressure didn’t fade. It felt real—so fucking real.

“Shauna, why did you come here? You know it’s not good for you to be out here all by yourself, getting drunk. We both know you don't handle your liqour well.” Jackie’s voice was soft, caring, but with this light judging undertone. It only made Shauna’s blood boil. Snapping her out of her irritation, back into her defensive state. Jackie's judgment always angered her easily.

“Stop mothering me. Stop telling me what to do.” Shauna’s voice was sharp. The impossibility of Jackie even being there was already buried under layers of old habits—arguing, snapping, lashing out.

“Then stop being so reckless. You leave me no choice but to keep you from spiraling. I can't let you do something stupid like this, we both know what can happen, when you're angry and alone.”

Shauna snaps, reminding her off that aweful night was a step to far, she moved back, bitterness pooling in her throat. “Are you serious right now? You suddenly care about my well-being? *You’re the reason I’m here!* You haunt me, every day. I get no rest from you. I have nowhere to go, everyone hates me. I want you to LEAVE” Her voice cracked, and tears welled up, spilling over her cheeks, hot and angry.

Jackie stood firm, she could see past Shauna’s lies, her eyes piercing through Shauna’s defenses. “Stop lying to yourself, Shauna. Be honest, you don't want me to leave.” Her voice softened, but the words cut deep. “You could’ve prevented all of this if you hadn’t constantly lied you know, if you didn’t always push people away. I know why you feel haunted and trust me it isn't me. I didn't do this to you Shauna. You created your own hallucinations. Because you couldn't face me and tell me how you really felt, when i was still alive. And now you can't let go. Fine, i get it, you wanted to be me, or hate me for what i had, for having it *easy,* What *newsflash* wasn't true, but that wasn’t all—i don't understand why you didn't just tell me how you felt? I was waiting for you to be honest, but you never were. I loved you. I never doubted that. But you did. And you hid away. And started hating me instead.”

Jackie’s eyes blazed with truth, unwavering. “Yes, the crash wasn’t your fault. But it only sped up the inevitable. You hated me for who I was, and now you hate me for being dead, because there’s no one left for you to hide behind. Now, you have to show your true face. But you still don’t. It’s not too late for you to do better. To change. Don’t let your self-destruction stand in your way of something good for you. You could have genuin friends and love, if you’d let yourself.”

Shauna’s eyes hardened, meeting Jackie’s stare with defiance. She took a step forward, closing the distance between them. “I *don’t* want to change. I don’t want to fit the mold you saw for me. I want to be *this*. I want to be who I was in the wilderness. I lost you. I lost our… my baby,” Her breath shuddered. “And after everything, i just fucking had it with hiding my true self. I lost my fear of being who I wanted to be. And the truth is, you couldn’t handle it. If you were truly here, you’d be scared of me. And you know it. But this is me, wether you like it or not.”

Jackie’s expression faltered, her gaze drifting downward before locking back onto Shauna’s, her eyes softening just a bit. “Maybe you're right but at least you’d be honest.”

The air hung thick with the weight of unspoken truths—an argument that had lingered for years, now resurfacing again, raw and unrestrained. This was a conversation that should have happened long before... if honesty had been a language they both spoke and a tragedy never happened, before they had a chance to.

Shauna’s voice cracked, her hands shaking. “I miss you, Jackie… that’s the truth. And I just wanted things to be okay again. I don’t know who I am, I always wanted freedom. But I never wished for you to... I just wanted you to see me. *See me as me,* not try to change me.”

Jackie took a step closer, her eyes glistening with something tender, something almost human. “I didn’t want to change you. I just… I just needed things to be a certain way. For things to work out as planned. Everything I was… it was what I needed to be for my mom, for Jeff, for my future. Everything just got more of a burden on my back. It was easier to pull you with me in the same direction. Anything outside of the plan… it was terrifying. Not that I didn’t *want* to just be myself, fuck i didn't know who i was either, i wanted to break out of it like you did but i never was so strong… I couldn’t… the only thing i was good at was pretending..." Her eyes darted out to Shuana deeply, she looked so vulnerable, smaller. "I miss you too Shauna. I miss us.”

Her voice trailed off, she looked *alive.* and so breakable. She reached out, and before Shauna could flinch, Jackie’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her in close. Shauna stiffened, torn between clinging to reality and what ever this was, then slowly, her muscles unwound, her shoulders relaxing as she sank into the embrace. Jackie’s hands rubbed her back, a motion so familiar it hurt. Shauna squeezed her eyes shut, inhaling the faint trace of lavender and a scent so familiar to Jackie's, a smell that felt like home.

She couldn’t help it—couldn’t stop herself from holding onto Jackie as tightly as she could. Jackie didn’t pull away under the pressure of Shauna’s desperate arms around her. Her hands dug into Jackie’s back, pressing hard, almost as if testing how real this was. How real *she* was. Shauna’s breath came out ragged, uneven, sobs choking their way out of her throat. She cried under the weight of the moment, her body shaking, her fingers gripping tighter.

Whether real or not, whether just a fragment of her broken mind or something beyond explanation, she couldn’t bear the fact that she *needed* Jackie. That she was willing to surrender to madness just to feel her presence one more time.

“Please don’t go,” she whispered, her voice filled with desperation. “Please. I don't care if you’re real or not, just... don’t leave me alone again. I need you.” Her words trembled on her lips, slipping into the cool night air like fragile confessions.

Jackie’s hands remained steady and impossibly gentle on her, fingers light and comforting. There was no breath against Shauna’s skin, no heartbeat beneath her touch—but there was warmth. A radiating heat that bloomed in Shauna’s chest, spreading outwards like the slow burn of whiskey. Maybe it was just the alcohol still lingering in her veins, but she didn’t care. Not now. Not when Jackie was here.

“Please…” Shauna’s voice broke, shattering into something fragile and aching. “I know I can’t keep you. But just for a little while... just a second longer. Can you hold me? I need my best friend...”

And Jackie held her. Her touch never wavered, her arms wrapped securely around Shauna. She moved with her—slow and tender, swaying gently in the moonlight as if caught in a delicate, unspoken dance. Shauna let herself be led, let herself sink into the warmth and the feeling of *belonging* The pale glow of the moon cast silver ripples over the lake, shimmering in waves that mirrored the way Jackie’s touch moved through her. A comforting coldness.

Shauna closed her eyes, letting her head fall to Jackie’s shoulder. It was everything she had always wished for—*still* wished for, even after all this time. Her fingers knotted into Jackie’s dress, clutching the fabric like it might fade away at any moment. She wanted to burn this feeling into her memory, to never forget how it felt to be held like this.

Jackie’s voice whispered against her ear, soft and warm. “The path you’re going down, Shauna, it’s dark and dangerous, and I can’t stop you from it. But I will be with you. I’m *always* with you. Even if you don't see me.”

Her embrace lingered, the sensation of warmth stretching out, cradling Shauna in a fragile moment of peace. She breathed in one last time before steadying herself again. She wanted to speak about so much more, open up and give all her pain and thoughts even maybe confessions to her. But when Shauna opened her eyes again, Jackie was gone. Not with a flash or a scream—just *gone.* Only the lingering warmth on her skin remained, fading slowly like the ghost of a touch.

Shauna stood alone by the lake, her hands still slightly raised where Jackie’s arms had been, her breath came out in shaky bursts. She felt the sting of longing—pure, unbridled longing—for the one person she would never have back. And she cried... all alone.

Chapter Text

Shauna wouldn’t let go of that moment if she wasn’t forced to now that Jackie was gone. She wanted to shake off the feeling so badly—or maybe chase after it. She wasn’t sure. Her thoughts drifted back to the lake, the image of slipping beneath its surface, letting the icy grip of the water pull her under, came back crashing even harder than before. The idea played out in her head like some twisted version of *Ghost*, as if she might sink into the darkness and find Jackie waiting for her there—hovering above, hands reaching out like Sam did for Molly. Maybe if she drowned, she’d finally be able to hold Jackie again, just for a moment.

But the cruel reality was, there would be no Sam Wheat pulling her back to safety, or in this case Jackie Taylor. No warm arms catching her before she faded away. It would just be her, sinking deeper and deeper into the black, until the world shrank away and she was nothing but a whisper beneath the water's surface. And how many times would it work for her mind to bring back her friend to ground her again with a light touch on her shoulder, was it worth the risk?

The practical side of her knew it was too dramatic, even for her. And besides, some deep, instinctual part of her understood that whatever waited in the abyss of that dark water wasn’t something she should reach out to. Jackie wouldn’t want that—not this Jackie. Not the one who held her.

The warmth of that touch was gone now, leaving her shivering against the bite of the night air. The alcohol still simmered in her bloodstream, making her movements sluggish and her steps unsteady. But she forced herself back toward her truck, clinging to the last bit of comfort Jackie had given her: *Get in the truck. Sleep it off.*

There was something soothing about following one of Jackie’s demands. That gentle, motherly hovering—soft but firm—was more comforting than anything her own mother had ever offered. In this vulnerable state, drunk and stumbling through the haze of grief, Shauna could admit it. She needed that gentle control, that safety net.

She yanked open the truck door and climbed into the back, fumbling with her phone for a moment. Her first instinct was to toss it away, but she stopped, her eyes catching on the screen. Her mother had called multiple times, and so had Taissa. Missed calls stacked on top of each other like layers of concern she hadn’t asked for. Shauna blinked at the notifications, her thumb hovering over the screen. She wasn’t in any condition to talk. And as for her mother...well, she’d been through nights like this before. Shauna disappearing and reappearing without explanation. It wouldn’t be the first time. *She’ll live.*

With a sigh, she tossed the phone aside, letting it clatter to the floor. It could buzz and blink all it wanted; she wasn’t picking up. Her hands searched blindly for the ratty old blanket crumpled on the floor of the truck bed. It was dusty, littered with crumbs, the kind of grime that would’ve made Jackie flinch. But Shauna didn’t hesitate, wrapping it tightly around herself, burrowing into its familiar scent of old leather and her dad's cologne—a remnant of a time when things felt simpler.

*"Not like you would, Jackie…"* she murmured to herself, a weak smile cracking through the tears still slipping down her cheeks. She remembered the times Jackie would scoff at the blanket, telling her to get a new one, only to relent when Shauna told her it was her dad’s. Jackie always respected that, never pressing again. It was the kind of gentleness that Shauna craved and hated at the same time.

Her voice was so small, so silent, almost lost to the wind that swept over the lake. But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t meant for anyone else to hear.

She sank back against the seat, the weight of exhaustion finally pulling her under. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she let herself pretend Jackie was still there—arms wrapped around her, keeping her steady, keeping her company. Not as a hallucination, but as something real, something she could hold onto. A vivid memory of her Jackie—both of them arm in arm.

It didn’t take long for Shauna to finally sink into a deep, heavy sleep. She was never the type to drift off easily, but the soothing feeling of not being alone—the comfort of Jackie’s imagined presence—was enough to lull her into slumber. That, and the alcohol still burning through her veins, weighing her eyelids down and dragging her under. Wrapped in her father’s old blanket, cocooned in its familiar scent, she drifted off against the truck seat, her breath evening out as the world slipped away.

The sleep wasn’t necessarily good. It was fragmented, punctuated by flickers of dreams she couldn’t quite remember and moments where she stirred, uncomfortable, limbs twisted awkwardly. But it was enough to sleep off the buzz, to let the alcohol seep out of her system, replacing the haze with a splitting headache and a sickly churn in her stomach.

The second her eyes cracked open, she bolted upright, instinct taking over. She barely made it out of the truck before she doubled over, emptying her stomach onto the grass. Her body purged itself of whatever toxins remained, watery bile splattering against the earth, leaving her gasping and grimacing. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, spitting out the taste before stumbling back toward the truck.

Her spine popped and cracked as she stretched, arms reaching above her head, the joints in her neck snapping back into place. Sleeping in the cramped, curled-up position had done a number on her, leaving her muscles sore and stiff. She groaned, rolling her shoulders before glancing back toward the lake.

The sun had already risen, its light casting a soft, golden shimmer over the water's surface. The darkness of the night before had been replaced by a sweet, honey-yellow glow, streaks of sunrise orange still lingering on the horizon, painting the edge of the world in warmth. Shauna lingered for a moment, just long enough to take it in, then turned away abruptly, almost like the sight offended her. She had no time for pretty things.

Dragging herself back to the truck, she collapsed into the driver’s seat, feeling every muscle protest the movement. Her head throbbed, a dull, pulsing ache that settled right behind her eyes. She started the engine, the noise hitting her like a punch, making her wince. Static crackled to life from the radio, and she slapped her hand against it immediately, killing the sound before it could get any louder. The silence that followed was almost too much, but at least it didn’t make her head feel like it was going to explode.

Her hands rested on the steering wheel, and she took a deep breath, trying to gather her thoughts. It was morning, and she was still here. Jackie wasn’t. Shauna looked into the rearview mirror and saw the lake’s reflection in the distance, shimmering under the morning sun.

She had to choose: go home and hopefully avoid her mother—praying she wouldn’t have to endure another encounter with the *guest* waiting in her room. Somehow, that version of Jackie was different from the one she had been with last night. It was like she was dealing with two entirely separate personalities: one sweet, comforting; the other a bitter reminder of her torment. But a good rest on a proper mattress was tempting. God, she needed that—solid sleep without the crick in her neck or the stiff ache in her back. The wild even had better sleeping options than the backseat of her truck.

Her other option was to go to school, the place she was still forced to attend, *because normalcy is healthy*, they said. Because she was *still to young* and *needed structure* and all those other well-meaning phrases adults told themselves. The only dangling carrot in all of it was the promise from Brown University. They had guaranteed her a spot if she managed to keep her grades decent for the year—an olive branch, a chance to salvage what was left of her future.

But Shauna couldn’t ignore the truth: expecting her to just slide back into social life within a year was *utopian.* It wasn’t that she lacked intelligence. Hell, if anything, her mind had sharpened in the wilderness, honed by necessity and survival. But the thought of sitting in a stuffy classroom, packed shoulder to shoulder with twenty other students... it was *claustrophobic*. The smell of cheap charcoal pencils and strong cleaning agents, the harsh white lights that buzzed incessantly, the constant shuffle and whispers—all of it felt like knives to her senses.

Noise-canceling headphones helped, but they were bulky and ugly, the kind of thing that made you a target. Walking through the halls with them on only drew more stares. And the stares... she hated them. Worst of all was her temper. Unwanted touches—a stray hand brushing against her arm, someone bumping into her shoulder—triggered flashes of white-hot anger. Teachers lecturing her over simple mistakes sent her spiraling. The first weeks back at school had been *traumatic* for everyone involved.

The younger kids, the ones who had only heard whispers of what happened to the team, threw taunts in the hallways. They made cavemen like noises at her*, calling her a* *Wilderness Freak,* or just stared at her weirdly. Shauna ignored them as best she could, but sometimes... sometimes she couldn’t. There had been incidents, whispers of her snapping back, of things getting physical, of teachers getting involved. She’d managed to skate by with warnings, but only just.

No. School wasn’t happening today. She knew her destination the moment she considered it. Home. Sleep. Avoidance.

Human interaction could wait.

She turned the key in the ignition and drove back home, each mile bringing her closer to that bittersweet sanctuary.

As she arrived, she noticed right away—her mother’s car wasn’t in the driveway. A relief, honestly. It was still early, and the last thing she wanted was another round of probing questions. She figured she’d get away with slipping back in unnoticed. That thought lasted until she remembered her phone.

Reaching into the backseat, she grabbed it, the screen lighting up with a backlog of missed calls. Dozens. And a text.

She opened it with a sigh, expecting something passive-aggressive. Instead, it read:

**“I get it—you don’t want to talk to me right now.**

**Sorry for saying shit like that so casually.**

**Haven’t heard from Van in weeks… and I’ve disconnected from the others.**

**Just know you can always count on me, even if I can’t give you what you need right now, Shauna.**

**But soon, I’m sure I can invite you over again. And hey—**

**you can meet my new dog. He’s the sweetest little thing. I could eat him up. You’d love him.**

**And… about Jackie. Please, talk to someone about the hallucinations.**

**It’s for the best. You need to let her go.”**

Shauna stared at the screen for a long moment, her thumb was hovering over the reply button. She thought about answering—just a quick *“thanks”*, maybe something polite to keep the peace. But the thought faded just as quickly. Maybe it was better to stay disconnected for now. She didn’t have it in her to explain, not again. No one ever understood what Jackie meant to her—*not then, not now*. Letting go wasn’t just *hard*—it was impossible.

She needed rest more than anything. After last night, it wasn’t just her body that was worn out—her mind felt frayed, pulled thin by everything she had seen and felt. Jackie’s hallucination had gotten so close, too *real*, and she hadn’t yet processed the ache of feeling more alone than ever before.

Not Tai.

Not Jeff.

Not her mother.

No one could change that.

The pull to isolate herself was growing stronger. She could feel it in her chest, in her spine—this urge to shut the world out completely. Let her brain rot in silence. Let the days bleed into one another while Jackie would float around her like a ghost, offering flickers of the friendship that once tethered her to something soft. Maybe she *should* drink more. Who would care if she slipped into alcoholism and quietly faded out? She wasn’t even much of a drinker—never had been—but she couldn’t deny it anymore. That *feeling* she had last night? That visceral, physical reaction? It was worth chasing.

It was like the meat shed. Like the wilderness.

Just her and Jackie. Laughing. Holding each other.

Whether it was real or not.

Maybe it was pure exhaustion that gave her a break from the worst of the haunting, a fragile mercy from a tired brain. It *should* have felt like relief. But it didn’t.

She stepped inside.

Every movement felt like wading through wet concrete.

Her head still pounded, her limbs heavy, her stomach twisted and screaming.

As soon as she passed through the kitchen, she couldn’t fight it anymore. She leaned over the sink and threw up violently, her body convulsing with the effort. There wasn’t much in her stomach left—but the retching was brutal all the same. She shivered, half from dehydration, half from the cold sweat breaking out over her skin.

This feeling of and empty stomach, the cold, the dehydration, for a year and a half in the wild, it had been constant—normal.

But this? The vomiting? It took her back to a place she *didn’t* want to revisit.

Pregnancy.

She clenched her jaw and forced the thought out of her head like a pest.

She cupped water from the tap and rinsed her mouth quickly, washing away the bitterness. Then, wiping down the sink and dragging her sluggish limbs forward, she started up the stairs.

Every step was agony.

Her legs trembled, her head swam, and her stomach still churned with aftershocks.

But she couldn’t bear the thought of collapsing on the living room couch and being found like this.

Not wanting to be seen by her mother.

So she climbed.

One step at a time.

As she reached her room, she hesitated. It made no sense—this constant pull and push between craving Jackie’s presence and dreading the moment she’d walk in and feel it. The rage from yesterday still clung to the walls like static. How far into madness had she already slipped?

She opened the door.

The sharp, artificial pine scent she’d hung up had fully consumed the room. It hit her instantly, thick and cloying, making her gag. No window was open to let in fresh air, no breeze to soften the smell curling in her nostrils. Maybe it wasn’t even the scent—maybe it was just the hangover twisting her stomach. Either way, it made her want to retch.

If this was what being an alcoholic felt like, then yeah—*not sustainable.* Not that she was weak, not after everything her body had endured, but stomachaches had always been a soft spot. And ever since her pregnancy, that sensitivity had only worsened. Everything strong—smells, textures, tastes—lingered longer and hit harder. It never left her even after her baby’s death. Like her body remembers the pregnancy better than her mind.

She stepped inside. The curtains draped over the window blocked most of the morning light, casting the room in muted shadows. Perfect, she thought, for a nap. However long it needed to be. She collapsed onto the bed.

The ugly, grey-toned sheets she’d pulled from the basement the day before clung to her skin. A dreadful gift from her mother, now replacing the soft floral ones she’d destroyed. They matched her mood—muted, miserable, heavy.

*“Suits me,”* she muttered, turning away from the sliver of sun still spilling across her mattress.

She tried lying on her stomach, but the twisting in her gut made her flinch. On her side? No better. She shifted again. And again. Until finally she found a position that didn’t make her want to scream. Curling up beneath the rough blanket, she shivered for a while—until her body adjusted, heat slowly pooling under her skin. From her legs to her chest, her limbs warmed. Everything but her feet. Her feet were always cold.

She closed her eyes, but her mind wouldn’t settle. Thoughts scattered and spiraled—images of the lake, her mother’s voice, the suffocating halls of school, the grit still clinging to her skin from the water. She could *feel* it on her—dirt and algae and memory. For a full five minutes she debated reaching down to brush it off, and when she finally did, the simple contact made her feel just a little bit better.

The ache in her stomach faded into the background, but her thoughts didn’t stop spinning. It took over an hour for her body to finally give in. Her breathing evened out, tension slipping away as her limbs sank into the mattress.

There, under the coarse blanket, hidden from the world, she slept—restless, aching, but finally still.

It was probably about twelve hours of deep, dreamless sleep—maybe even more if she’d been left undisturbed. But the cruel reality hit fast: she didn’t live alone.

A hand shook her awake, gently at first.

Shauna flinched.

She felt the difference immediately. This wasn’t the featherlight, ethereal touch of a ghost. No—this hand had weight, roughness, a temperature. And worse, it was followed by a voice—not the soft echo she’d almost come to expect, but a sharp, real voice.

“Shauna.”

The name rang in her ear, dragging her out of the warmth of unconsciousness.

She pulled away instinctively, her eyes snapping open as the voice cut sharper now, no longer muffled by the blanket over her head.

“Shauna, wake up.”

She blinked against the dim light of the room, her vision clearing just in time to focus on the figure standing over her.

Groaning, she let out a sigh of disappointment so thick it was practically a *fuck you*. Of course—it was her mother.

“Shauna, I need you downstairs. You can go back to bed after.”

She glared at the woman—petite, stern, brown eyes cold and unreadable, the short-cropped ginger hair neatly styled as always. Shauna didn’t respond right away. Her limbs felt like lead, and her brain hadn’t caught up with her body yet.

“Why?” she muttered, her voice dry, lips barely moving. She wasn’t ready for this. Not now. Not after last night.

But her mother didn’t budge. There was no room for negotiation in her tone.

“Your therapist is here. We need to talk. After what you pulled yesterday, I’m not tolerating any attitude.”

Her voice wasn’t even pretending to be kind this time. It was cold—blunt. There was no performative softness, no faux concern. Just bluntness and control.

Shauna blinked at her, half-wondering if the store had called about the stolen bottle. She wouldn’t put it past the old man to press charges. But bringing in the therapist? That felt dramatic.

Still, she wasn’t in the mood to argue. Not with her stomach still churning, her head pounding, and the taste of bile still faint in her throat. Fighting right now would be pointless—and worse, it would give her mother *more* ammunition to use against her in front of the shrink.

“Coming,” Shauna muttered.

Her mother didn’t say another word. Just turned and disappeared down the stairs.

Shauna groaned as she pushed herself upright, her feet hitting the cold wooden floor with a dull *thud*. Her whole body protested the movement, but she forced herself into motion anyway. She didn’t bother changing or fixing herself up—just grabbed a hair tie and yanked her messy hair into a half-assed ponytail as she stumbled toward the door.

She caught a whiff of herself as she moved—cheap whiskey, sweat, and stale vomit clinging to her like shame. With a grimace, she grabbed a can of cheap air-freshener-deodorant from the hallway shelf, spraying a quick, sharp mist around her torso. *Fresh breeze* my ass, she thought. But better than walking in reeking of self-destruction.

Her steps were slow, but easier than they’d been on the way up. A little less like dragging a corpse behind her ribs.

When she turned the corner into the kitchen, the scene hit her like a slap.

Her mother sat stiffly at the table, hands folded too neatly in front of her. And next to her, on the left side, was the therapist—*her* therapist—already seated, notepad open, pen in hand. He wore that familiar, performative smile: concerned, practiced, disarmingly soft. It only made her stomach turn harder. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a routine check-in.

Her mother barely met her eyes. Instead, she stared to the left, jaw tight. Shauna knew that expression. Guilt, masked by restraint. That awful mix of *I’m doing what’s best* and *I’m scared of you*. Shauna’s lip curled slightly. She could smell the manipulation coming.

The therapist shifted in his seat, then gestured to the chair across from him. “Please, Shauna. Have a seat.”

She didn’t move at first—just stood there, raising one brow slowly, arms slack at her sides, looking between the two of them with unfiltered disdain. Her expression said it loud and clear:

*This is fucking weird. And you two look like clowns.*

Then, without a word, she stepped forward and dragged the chair out, the legs scraping loudly across the kitchen floor like a warning shot.

“Before we start,” the therapist began, folding his hands like a priest about to deliver bad news, “we’d like to check in. How are you feeling? It looks like you had a rough night. Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

His voice was soft, careful—but a hint of it already giving away, he knew the answer to this already. That same tone adults used when talking to a kid who was unaware and naiv. Shauna could see right through it. The faux warmth. The calculated pacing. His *I-care-so-much-it-hurts-me-too* expression made her want to slap it off his face.

She stared at him for a beat. Her arms remained crossed.

“I’m…” She caught herself. If she said *fine*, it’d come off as passive-aggressive and give him an excuse to dig deeper. She could already hear it: *‘Let’s explore what ‘fine’ really means, Shauna.’* Cue a month of sessions filled with “it’s okay to be honest about our feelings” bullshit.

So she pivoted.

“I had a long night,” she said flatly, voice low. “Slept outside. Tried sleeping upstairs again but... it didn’t work.”

He nodded like she’d just shared some incredible, vulnerable truth. “Thank you for sharing that,” he said, pen already scratching down notes she hadn’t consented to. Shauna watched the way he smiled at his paper—like she’d handed him a new puzzle piece to snap into place.

Of course, she’d conveniently left out the hallucinations. The drinking. The lake. The ghost, The sudden, uncontrollable urge to *purge* her room of Jackie’s scent like it was poison in the walls.

“Your mother informed me of some changes,” he continued, eyes flicking up from the paper. “About you removing things from your room. Can you tell me what led to that?”

Shauna didn’t answer right away.

Her leg had already started bouncing—heel tapping out an anxious rhythm against the floor, fast and erratic. She could feel him clocking it, scribbling even more now, probably labeling her with words like *agitated*, *avoidant*, *evasive*.

Her jaw tensed.

She leaned back in the chair, arms crossing tighter over her chest.

“You gonna ask if I threw out my childhood because I’m sick of feeling suffocated, or because I’m spiraling?” she asked, provoking, avoiding. “Why ask if you already know the answer.”

“I believe we talked about this before,” the therapist began in that careful, almost rehearsed tone. “It’s generally better not to make sudden changes so early after… everything.” He smiled, the kind of neutral expression that’s supposed to feel supportive but made Shauna’s skin itch. “Of course, we encourage patients to reclaim their space. And I understand the need to remove potential triggers—it’s not inherently a bad thing. But, ideally, it should happen with a supervising presence. Someone who can support you, offer comfort if needed.”

He was choosing his words *very* carefully. No mention of *Jackie*. No direct reference to why Shauna had stripped her room bare like it was tainted.

“So, Shauna…” he continued, adjusting his glasses, “how did you feel afterward? After clearing the room?”

Shauna let out a breath. She even felt herself relax, just slightly. As long as he kept dancing around the details, she didn’t have to say too much.

“I wanted to leave,” she said, flatly.

“Why?” he asked, tilting his head. “Did the action not have the effect you expected?”

“It made it worse,” she snapped.

He nodded slowly, jotting that down, humming to himself like he’d cracked some minor code. *Aha.*

“And what was your reaction when it… didn’t help?”

From the other side of the table, her mother leaned in slightly, eyes scanning her daughter’s expression. Shauna could *feel* it. The scrutiny. The curiosity. Like she was under a microscope.

Her leg started bouncing again. Rapid. Uncontrollable.

The therapist noticed.

“Let’s give Shauna a little space, Mrs. Shipman,” he said gently, motioning for her mother to ease back. He turned to Shauna with a calming hand gesture. “You don’t need to push yourself. Just whatever you’re comfortable with sharing.”

Shauna looked between the two of them—her mother, trying to pretend she wasn’t invested, and this stranger scribbling her every movement like it was data to be dissected. She hated it. Hated how obvious her body made her anxiety. Hated that she wasn’t in control of her own shaking legs. Hated that they *saw* it.

“I left,” she said, sharper now. “I needed out. I went somewhere else to sleep. That’s it.”

She pushed her chair back just a little.

“But I came back. I slept in the room. See?” She gestured vaguely upward. “Everything’s fine. No need to investigate this shit.”

Her voice was coated in sarcasm, every word a dismissal. And her body had already started to rise from the chair.

**“Shauna, please sit.”**

The therapist's voice was calm, but beneath the soft tone, she heard it—that thin layer of judgment, masked as concern.

**“I understand your urge to leave, but we have a few things to discuss. You were reported yesterday for stealing alcohol, and I’d like to understand what led to that—from the changes in your room to this behavior. I know it’s difficult adjusting to certain norms after what you’ve been through… but why did you feel the need to do that? Did something about your room trigger it? The need to drink?”**

He watched her carefully, pen poised, the picture of patience. But Shauna wasn’t fooled. And neither was she surprised when her eyes drifted toward her mother—who looked away, avoiding eye contact like a guilty child.

So it was her. She told him.

Shauna’s jaw tensed. “Am I being interrogated now?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Her voice rose with each word as her eyes locked onto her mother, sharp and accusing.

“Can’t I just be left the fuck alone for *one night*? Is that really too much to ask? What other shit did she tell you about me?”

**“Shauna, please lower your voice,”** the therapist cut in gently.

**“Your mother was concerned. She was contacted about what happened and did what she thought was best.”**

Shauna let out a bitter scoff, sharp as a blade. “Are you *serious*? She’s hiding behind you like always because she’s too afraid to tell me anything herself. She can’t even look at me! Like I’m some wild animal she’s scared will bite.”

She took a step closer to the table before she could stop herself, her voice dropping lower, more dangerous.

“Maybe she’s not wrong.”

The silence was immediate. Heavy.

Even Shauna was caught off guard by her own words, though she didn’t take them back.

**“Shauna, I think it’s best if you sit and take a breath.”**

It was only then she noticed—she was standing now, towering over her mother, who sat small and stiff in her chair. Her fists were clenched, her breathing shallow.

It hadn’t been intentional. But it hadn’t been entirely unconscious either.

Shauna didn’t want to sit back down. Her body screamed to move, to leave. But it was the sharp edge in the therapist’s voice that cut through her resistance and dragged her back into the chair. She dropped into it heavily, like it was a trap closing around her.

**“I know it’s difficult to open up, Shauna,”** he began gently, lacing his fingers together on the table. **“This is a lot to handle. But please, talk to us. If you need space, we can ask your mother to leave the room. That’s not a problem.”**

Her mother straightened slightly in her seat, clearly bracing to be dismissed—but Shauna’s glare snapped toward her like a blade.

**“No.”** Her voice was flat, cold. **“Let her stay. I want to hear what *else* she’s said. Every lie she’s been spitting behind my back.”**

Her mother flinched under the accusation, guilt flickering behind her eyes.

**“Those aren’t lies, Shauna,”** she said carefully, her tone laced with exhaustion. **“You have no self-control anymore. You lash out at me when I try to connect with you, you disappear without warning, you barely eat, barely sleep—*and now you’re stealing?* You push away everyone who cares. You’re destroying yourself, and I can’t sit by and watch it happen. Your father would be so disappointed—”**

**“Mrs. Shipman,”** the therapist cut in quickly, **“I have to advise you to stop.”**

Too late.

Shauna’s hands clenched into fists on her thighs. Her leg bounced, restless, and she began pinching the skin of her forearm beneath the table, nails digging in just enough to sting. Her body tensed like a spring pulled taut.

**“What’s that supposed to mean?”** she snapped, voice growing sharper. **“You planning to throw me out or something? Just say it. That’s rich coming from you.”**

**“No, of course not,”** her mother said, the words too quick, too practiced.

Shauna stared her down, eyes narrowing, scanning her mother’s face for any flicker of truth. *A tell. A shift. Anything.* She found it—the hesitation in her jaw, the way her hands fidgeted in her lap.

**“Stop lying, Deborah.”** Her voice dropped lower. **“What is this really about? Is this your messed-up little way of telling me I’m not welcome anymore?”**

**“No,”** the therapist interjected, more firmly now. **“No one is saying that. Your mother is scared, and rightfully so. But there are things that need to be addressed. We received a call—a concerned parent, someone who’s been made aware that your hallucinations have gotten worse. That you may not be getting along with your peers the way you’ve claimed during our sessions—”**

**“Whose parent?”** Shauna’s voice was low and cutting now, her fingernails pressing harder into the skin of her wrist. **“Who the hell called you?”**

The therapist glanced at her mother, hesitant. **“That’s not important right now. What *is* important is—”**

**“No, I think it’s *very* important,”** Shauna hissed, her voice rising. **“Who’s spreading shit about me? Who went crying to *mommy* about my hallucinations?”**

She didn’t need time to guess. Her pulse spiked as the answer crashed through her like ice.

**“It was Tai, wasn’t it?”** Her voice dropped again, rough and wounded. **“She ran her fucking mouth to her mom about me.”**

She sat rigid in her chair now, her entire body humming with fury, betrayal pooling in her gut like acid. Her breath came faster, her hands twitching—still clawing at her own skin.

**"Maybe it’s better we move this conversation to another day."**

The therapist’s voice was gentle, but there was an edge to it now—a quiet calculation as he watched Shauna’s entire body wind tighter with each second.

**“NO,”** Shauna snapped, her voice cracking like a whip through the air. **“I want to know the truth. What is this, huh? You gonna kick me out? More shit behind my back, Deborah?”**

She stood abruptly, the chair scraping sharply against the floor. Her mother flinched, instinctively backing away as Shauna advanced. Her fists were clenched, the knuckles pressed so hard into the wooden table beside her it let out a creak under the strain.

The therapist’s voice was calm but urgent now. **“Mrs. Shipman, please leave the room.”**

Fear flickered across his face—subtle, but there. And on her mother’s too. Shauna saw it, soaked it in like gasoline, her breath ragged with rage she couldn’t contain.

Her mother half-rose, but Shauna didn’t let her move. She stood tall, seething, her body casting a long shadow across the floor, her eyes wide and burning. And when she spoke again, her voice had changed—lower, more bitter, poisoned by exhaustion.

**“What is this for? You finally gonna write me off as insane? Hmm?”** She tilted her head sharply toward the therapist, taunting him. **“You gonna tell them all? Here’s your little wilderness freak—violent, exactly what we expected. She cracked. Your lives work, writing a book about it?”**

Mocking applause. Slow. Deliberate. “Con-fucking-gratiulations doc”

And then—

**a whisper. Behind her.**

So close it scraped her spine.

**"They’re mocking you, Shipman. They want you to snap. Do it. Show them who you really are."**

Jackie’s voice. Silken. Coiled.

Shauna’s head twitched slightly, her eyes darting to the corner of the room—empty, but charged. The therapist noticed. Her mother noticed. Something changed in their faces. Concern. Pity. Recognition.

And Jackie smiled in the corner, smug and wicked, she leaned against the wall only Shauna could see.

Shauna snapped her gaze back to the therapist, eyes blazing now.

**“Answer me!”** she demanded, her voice breaking from its weight.

**“What was I called down for? Stop circling it. Tell me what the fuck this is really about!”**

Shauna’s agitation hit a boiling point.

Her fist slammed onto the table with a sharp crack.

Her mother flinched.

The sound echoed through the kitchen like a warning shot.

The therapist began to approach—slowly, cautiously—but Shauna didn’t move.

She stood rooted, looming, keeping her mother pinned in the chair with nothing but the force of her presence.

**“Someone better open their fucking mouth right now, or I’ll—”**

**“Shauna, you’re insane!”** her mother blurted out, voice trembling.

**“You can’t even stay calm for one conversation! Don’t you see that we’re just trying to help you?”**

Shauna snapped her head toward her, eyes wide, venom gleaming in them.

**“Help me?”**

Her voice dropped, laced with disgust.

**“If you wanted to help me, you wouldn’t have fucked around on Dad and blown up our entire life. You wouldn’t have lied, and cheated, and turned our family into this fucking joke.”**

Her mother’s face paled.

**“Don’t act innocent, Deborah. Don’t you dare.”**

Each word was a dagger.

**“You think I leaned on you for support? You were never there. You were a fucking ghost in my life. That’s why I turned to *others*. That’s why I survived out there without you. Because of you, I’m stuck in this backwater town, pretending like I’m not losing my mind while you play house like nothing happened.”**

Shauna leaned in closer, voice cracking now—her rage curdling into something more unhinged.

**“You made me. I came out of your womb a devil-child and you know what? You were *glad* to be rid of me after the crash. I saw your face when i returned... So stop pretending. You don’t care. You never did.”**

She didn’t even care that her pulse was thundering in her ears.

She *wanted* her words to hit like gunshots.

She wanted to break something—*someone*—if that’s what it took to make them back off.

**“Shauna,”** the therapist interjected, voice firm now, stepping closer, **“I need you to step away from your mother.”**

His hand reached out carefully, fingers grazing her arm—

just as hers was still half-raised, the tension vibrating through it like a spring ready to snap.

There was barely an inch left between her and lashing out.

And just behind her, in the flickering edge of her vision—

**Jackie. “Do it Shauna”**

**“Shauna, please. Step away.”**

The therapist’s voice was calm, measured—but his posture was tense, ready to intervene if she snapped.

Her mother took a breath. Not a deep one. A shallow, brittle one.

**“You’re right, Shauna.”**

Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from something closer to shame.

**“I never connected with you. Not really. Maybe even less now.”**

She looked up at her daughter, eyes tired.

**“But that doesn’t mean I don’t care. I *do* care.”**

Shauna’s breath hitched, but her fists stayed clenched.

**“I know Jackie was there for you… when I wasn’t. When your dad left.”**

She paused. Her throat bobbed.

**“I get it. But you weren’t alone. You’ve *never* been alone. Not like I was, at your age.”**

She tried to keep eye contact, but the flicker of hesitation—of fear—was still there.

**“And you… you act like the world revolves around your pain. But have you ever thought—*really* thought—about how others feel?”**

The words spilled out now, laced with quiet bitterness.

**“You’re selfish, Shauna. You sabotage yourself. You burn every bridge and then cry about being stranded.”**

It wasn’t an attack.

It was a confession.

One Shauna had always *felt*, but never *heard*.

And now, standing there, vibrating with fury—it still didn’t feel like enough.

**“Fucking *finally*, Deborah.”**

The words came out in a low growl.

From the corner of her eye—

**Jackie**, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with contempt.

**“That’s it? You gonna let her off the hook like that, Shipman?”**

Jackie’s voice coiled in her ear like smoke.

**“After *everything*?”**

Before Shauna could respond, the therapist stepped in again, gentle but firm.

**“That’s why we’ve decided… it’s best if you’re placed under full observation.”**

He was still behind her, cautious.

**“Somewhere with professionals who know how to help.”**

Shauna blinked.

**“What do you mean?”**

**“They’re shipping you off, obviously,”** Jackie answered with a snide laugh.

**“Mental hospital, straight to padded walls and dreamland, baby.”**

**“We’ve found an institute,”** the therapist continued, ignoring the rising tension.

**“They specialize in young adults dealing with trauma. It’s not a punishment—it’s for your safety. Your healing.”**

**“They think you’re completely gaga, Shipman.”**

Jackie’s laughter echoed in her head, sharp and gleeful.

**“Cracked. Unhinged. Just like they always knew you’d be.”**

Shauna’s gaze snapped to her mother.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Shauna was boiling from the inside out.

Her whole body buzzed with static, her skin tingling, her chest tight like a trap was springing shut around her ribs. She was vibrating, bubbling—on the verge of eruption. Her breath was shallow, her jaw clenched so hard it ached.

And Jackie’s voice was in her ear again.

Low. Cold.

**“What a cunt. Cunt. Such a cunt…”**

Her tone was mocking, almost sing-song.

**“Taking you away from everything. *Everything you know*. Who gave her that right, Shipman?”**

The words pulsed through her skull like a mantra.

**“Shauna…”** her therapist’s voice tried to ground her, but Jackie’s voice was louder.

**“Snap… snap… come on. Snap, Shipman. Snap.”**

Over and over again. A sick chant echoing in the corners of her mind.

Then—**silence.**

Not even Jackie.

A quiet so deep it rang in her ears.

And in that moment, the quiet was worse than the chanting.

Because it felt like Jackie was *watching*, waiting.

**Testing her.**

Then came the final whisper, slow and venomous:

**“…Do it.”**

Shauna *screamed*, a guttural burst tearing out of her chest.

**“SHUT. UP!”**

She grabbed the nearest chair and *slammed* it toward Jackies direction, the wood cracking against the floor, skidding wildly across the room. The therapist flinched back, nearly stumbling as he dodged the flying chair.

**“Shauna—please—calm down,”** he said, lifting his hands, trying to step closer.

But the moment his hands moved toward her—

**SLAP.**

Her palm cracked against his arm before he could touch her.

**“Don’t fucking touch me!”**

Her chest was heaving now. Her eyes locked on her mother—wild, furious, hurt.

**“You are NOT doing this to me,”** she hissed, every syllable soaked in anger.

**“You bitch.”**

And before her mother could retreat, Shauna *lunged*.

Her fingers closed around her mother’s throat in one swift, terrifying motion.

**“Fuck you,”** she spat, her eyes narrowing, dark and vicious.

**“Harder,”** Jackie’s voice whispered sweetly, breathy in her ear like a lover.

**“Come on, baby. Squeeze.”**

Her grip tightened.

Her mother gasped, hands clawing at Shauna’s wrists, trying to pull free. Her eyes bulged, lips parted in a panicked breath that couldn’t find air.

The therapist launched forward, scrambling to pry Shauna off, but she held on, her arms taut with unholy strength, the kind that came from *somewhere else*.

For one long, agonizing moment—

She *wanted* to do it.

Wanted to feel the silence it would bring.

**“She deserves it,”** Jackie crooned, now circling behind her. **“She always has.”**

But even as her body tensed, even as her nails dug into skin—

Somewhere deep beneath the fury, a fracture began to widen. A sliver of clarity.

And it was enough.

Enough for the therapist to finally get leverage. He grabbed her wrists and *yanked* them back, peeling her fingers away one by one.

Her mother gasped for air, coughing violently, stumbling away from the table.

Shauna stumbled too, panting, chest heaving like she’d just run for miles. Her eyes darted wildly. Jackie stood by the doorway now, smiling softly. Victorious.

The therapist still held onto Shauna’s arms, even after she’d stopped fighting.

**“You’re insane,”** they both said in unison—her mother and Jackie. One smirking from ear to ear, the other gasping for breath, terrified to the core.

The grip around her wrists grounded her just enough for the world to stop spinning.

Shauna looked at her mother—and there they were. The marks around her neck. Bright red fingerprints. She’d come *awfully* close. Too close. Her hands had nearly stolen the last breath from someone who raised her. That thrill, the brief flash of *control* she'd felt, it still lingered under her skin… but now, another feeling crept in.

**Guilt.**

Real, sharp guilt. Not just the cold kind she’d grown numb to. Not the kind she could shrug off with a snide remark or a dry laugh.

This one pierced something deeper.

**“Fuck,”** she muttered, blinking hard. **“I almost could’ve killed her.”**

The words slipped out, but they hit like a confession—echoing what everyone else in the room was already thinking.

The therapist looked at her, steady but no longer soft. **“Shauna, come with me. You see it too now, don’t you? You need help.”** His tone was urgent. **“We can solve this without legal action. But I need you to come voluntarily.”**

And she knew what that meant.

If she left now—if she walked out that door with him—she was agreeing to it. To being locked up. Medicated. Watched. *Caged.*

Another wilderness, just with white walls instead of snow. No firewood. No teeth that bite into raw flesh. But a new place she would need to survive in.

Maybe that’s what she deserved.

Maybe that’s what she *needed.*

Her body didn’t fight when he took her arm again. She let him.

Her mother was standing now, rubbing at her throat, red-eyed and shaken. But she didn’t say a word. Didn’t reach out. Just stared.

Shauna turned to go, but her eyes didn’t leave her mother’s. Not until she reached the door.

Something passed between them in that silence. Something final.

**Whatever connection they once had—whatever fragile, fucked-up thread still tied them together—was cut the moment Shauna walked out.**

**“We’ll get your things,”** the therapist said, his voice fading in. **“You’ll be placed in a crisis stabilization facility for psychiatric observation. Just for a few days. After that, we’ll arrange your transfer to a long-term care program.”**

Shauna didn’t respond. Her mind was blank, stripped clean like bone under frost.

Whatever came next, she wasn’t stopping it.

She just let herself be led out the door.

Chapter Text

The next few days passed in a daze. Shauna was isolated—not truly alone, but worse: stuck in a cramped room with another woman. Some addict waiting to be transferred to rehab. She spent the nights sweating and cursing in her sleep, twitching, whimpering, waking up screaming. Shauna didn’t talk to her. Didn’t acknowledge her. Didn’t acknowledge much of anything.

She was somewhere new. But it didn’t matter.

The whole place felt like a brothel for the broken—people coming and going, getting what they needed from the staff before disappearing again. Some only stayed a night. Others looked like they’d been there too long already. It wasn’t a hospital. It was a holding cell. A limbo. A funnel.

People on the edge, just waiting to be shoved into the next facility—whatever new version of hell was waiting for them down the line.

Shauna kept quiet. Let them examine her. Bloodwork, urine samples, psych evals. Some woman talked at her one morning—something about a transfer. A secluded place. Tucked away somewhere quiet and remote. For *young adults like her*. She barely retained the details.

Something about intensive therapy. One-on-one observation. Group sessions. A whole cocktail of diagnoses. Anger management. Schizophrenia. Borderline. Delusional. It all blurred.

She knew what it was.

Her own personal Rikers Island. Just with brighter lights and more pills.

During her stay, nothing personal came up, meaning…

No one called. No one came.

Not that she expected them to.

Her therapist showed up every day, clipboard in hand, soft voice turned robotic with repetition. Explained everything. What to expect. Who’d be there. How long. That she’d be cared for. That she was *safe*.

Shauna nodded when she had to. Signed where she was told. Answered just enough to keep things moving. Whatever.

The papers for consent of an parental figure were already signed.

Her mother had signed them.

That was the last she'd heard from her.

No visits. No calls. Not even a damn note.

The only trace of her was a duffel bag the therapist handed her on the second day—packed, clearly, without a second thought. Clothes, toiletries, a few things from her room. Nothing special.

Except—

A small wooden box.

Her old keepsake box. The one that held the most private pieces of her—the most dangerous. Things she was certain her mother would’ve *never* sent if she’d looked inside.

Inside were the pieces of Jackie.

Her lipstick, the hair, the shirt and the necklace.

And her father’s blanket securing everything on top.

Maybe that was her mother’s idea of a last goodbye. Or maybe she just wanted the damn thing out of the house.

At the bottom of the bag were her journals.

Some empty.

Some full.

The ones from the wilderness—water-damaged, brittle, stained with things even Shauna didn’t want to identify.

Everything in that bag was a version of herself. Torn pieces from a life that didn’t exist anymore, but still clung to her.

If this was what she was bringing into the next chapter of her life—then she knew exactly what kind of story it was going to be.

And it wasn’t a redemption arc but just a new place to be haunted by her past.

**The new place they were sending her to—however long she’d be trapped there—was overseas.**

Not just a town over. Not just another facility in-state.

**Across the ocean.**

Shauna didn’t want to believe her mother hated her *that much*—

But here she was.

Being shipped off to the land of fish and shits, stupid tea parties, and permanent piss of rains.

*Fucking England.*

“She really wants me gone that badly,” Shauna muttered to herself.

As if emotional exile wasn’t enough, they expected her to *fly* there.

On a *plane*.

The absolute **peak of the fucking iceberg**.

**Shauna was being prepared—for the flight, at least in theory.**

She knew it had to happen. Still, the idea of stepping onto a plane again—of *that* being the way they chose to move her—was almost unbearable.

**Out of all options… a plane? Really?**

She’d asked multiple times for a different way. Train. Ship. *Anything else.* But they didn’t budge.

*A plane is safer, Miss Shipman. Easier to monitor you. Less risk.*

But it wasn’t about the risk. Not really.

It was about the memories.

The metal groan. The drop. The screaming. The never ending trauma that followed.

Being shoved back into a sky she barely survived.

Her therapist tried to prepare her. He *really* did.

They talked through her anxiety. Made plans. Grounding techniques.

And then—**Xanax.**

The moment he offered it, she flinched like he’d slapped her.

“No fucking Xanax,” she snapped, louder than intended. “If I see one fucking pill in front of my face, I’ll jump out of the plane.”

She just knew to damn well, how little consciousness she had back than, high on the pills, it was a sweet gesture, to have gotten them but not helpful when a plane crashes down and you need to act fast.

That ended that.

So they pivoted. Something softer. Familiar.

**Music.**

Not stupid rain sounds or ambient white noise. Something real.

He asked her what used to help her.

She didn’t even hesitate. She just said it. Quietly, but with no filter:

“Jackie.”

It was the most vulnerable thing she’d said to him in all their sessions.

“Jackie gave me the necklace, it was supposed to protect me,” she said. “And she just… she had this stare. This warmth. Steady. Protective. She just knew things would be okay, and i believed her. I don’t know. It was enough. Even if she was wrong…”

It made the therapist pause.

She never talked about Jackie like this.

But she needed something. Anything that could comfort her.

So he leaned into it.

“Use that,” he said. “Use her. When you’re up there, in the sky—think about Jackie. Think about that look. That calm. That anchor. Put it in a playlist. Music that reminds you of her. Let that be your tether.”

Shauna resisted at first.

The idea sounded stupid. Romanticized. Too soft for what was actually going on in her head.

**He didn’t know about the hallucinations.**

Not *all* of them. Not the dark ones. Not the Jackie who stood in corners and whispered cruel things.

He just knew Jackie was still “present.”

“Use her,” he said. Like Jackie was some kind of comfort blanket.

Still… she agreed. Hesitantly. And together, they curated a mixtape.

One track at a time. Songs that brought back fragments. Feelings. Memories.

And when she would sit in that plane, waiting for takeoff, when her chest tightened and her palms sweat and her brain screamed to run—

**she’d press play.**

She didn’t know which Jackie she’d see.

The one who held her hand during turbulence…

Or the one who might want her to crash.

Before the flight, Shauna checked her phone one last time. No new messages. No missed calls. She hadn’t told anyone she was leaving—refused to. The idea of some awkward goodbye, forced concern from anyone who betrayed or barely been able to talk to her, made her stomach turn. She didn’t want attention. No fake sympathy. No empty well-wishes.

Still… a part of her had hoped for something from her mother. A message. A question. *Anything.* But there was just silence.

Her few belongings were packed into the bag she’d received from home. She left the room she’d been sleeping in exactly as she’d found it—blank, impersonal, untouched by anything resembling comfort, or that anyone has been there. When her therapist picked her up in his own car, it wasn’t some grand escort. Just a quiet drive in a small, pale yellow vehicle that smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale coffee—like a therapist waiting room you needed to sit in for a bit to long, starring at a painting for 20 minutes just not to be alone with your thoughts.

The closer they got to the airport, the more her anxiety began to crawl up her spine. She clenched her walkman in one hand, thumb hovering over the play button. Jackie’s necklace rested against her collarbone, cold against her skin but grounding in a way nothing else could be. She had her emergency plan. Press play. Hold on.

Her therapist kept talking, narrating what would happen once she landed in England like it was some harmless vacation. She’d be picked up by two facility staff, taken directly to the psychiatric center. Initial intake. Medical evaluation. A full check-up. Orientation. Then isolation. *Standard procedure for safety*, he said.

But Shauna heard the subtext loud and clear: *You’re a threat. Dangerous. Practically jail-worthy.*

She didn’t argue. Not because she agreed—but because it was probably true.

She stared out the window as the airport signs came into view.

She dreaded every mile that brought her closer to her so-called *final destination*. Ironic, really. Like some twisted joke from the universe—maybe it *was* her last flight. Another crash waiting to happen. Only this time, no soccer team beside her. No familiar faces. Just strangers bound for some foggy island in the ocean, unaware they were sharing air with a girl who’d already survived the end of the world once.

Shauna barely knew anything about the UK. Just the scraps taught in school—which, to be honest, wasn’t much—and whatever insights she’d picked up from films that painted absurdly romantic versions of the place. *The English Patient*. *Sense and Sensibility*. All sweeping landscapes and repressed emotions. Reality, though, sounded far grimmer.

A cold, grey rock populated by cold, grey people. Unsmiling snobs with tight smiles and tighter suits. Polite on the surface, hollow underneath. A place built on façades of decency—where honesty was filtered through fine bone china and empty compliments.

She couldn’t decide if it was her own personal hell…

Or the one place where she might actually fit in.

A land of dead eyes and well-kept secrets. *Pretty little lies*, served with lukewarm tea and sickly sweet pastries. It felt like the exact place Jackie might have ended up, had she lived. All pastel perfection and performative charm. The thought almost made Shauna laugh.

At least there was one upside: if she lost it again—stabbed someone with a steak knife—there’d probably be a few locals who’d laugh about it, so long as she made a good enough joke comparing it to a bad t-bone dinner. Britain, after all, *did* love its dark humor.

The airport was loud and blindingly bright. Machines hummed, turbines roared somewhere in the distance, and workers buzzed around like ants in high-vis vests. Thankfully, it wasn’t crowded. They’d booked an early weekday flight—partly to ease Shauna’s anxiety, mostly because it was cheaper.

She sat beside her therapist after check-in, waiting to be called to board. She hated this part. The in-between. Her therapist, bless his mediocrity, wasn’t exactly riveting company. What could a forty-something man—whose biggest thrill in life was probably getting a new chair for his office—possibly say to a twenty-year-old serial cannibal with abandonment issues and a grief complex?

Nothing that wouldn’t be deeply uncomfortable or wildly inappropriate.

God, what she wouldn’t give for a stupid, brain-dead conversation right now. Something trashy. Some snarky back-and-forth about old movies, or dumb gossip about boys and girls—anything to keep her brain from circling the drain. Anything to tune out the sound of the crying child a few rows across, whose wailing was already drilling into her skull like a migraine in the making.

She clenched her fists. Was she anxious? Or did her hands just *want* something to do—like lunge forward and silence that kid before her own nerves completely shattered?

Yeah. She was deranged. No question.

Her therapist noticed her twitching hands and leaned in with his well-practiced *calm voice*. “Don’t forget your breathing exercise. Deep in... and out.”

She side-eyed him so hard he actually flinched. Good. Baby-talk her again and she might take him as chocking victim number two, this week.

“Your Walkman,” he added instead, backing off. “Worst case scenario.”

Shauna didn’t reply. He probably couldn’t wait to be home again—feet up, wine in hand, already erasing her from his brain. Or maybe... maybe he’d feel a little smug. A little sad, even. No big reveal. No juicy confessional to bring to a conference or scribble into a memoir.

Still, he’d get to say he was the one who *tamed the wilderness beast*.

When they were finally called to board, Shauna walked slowly toward the plane entrance. Each step felt heavier than the last.

At the door, she was greeted by a tall brunette woman with an immaculate uniform and the kind of practiced smile clearly designed to calm nervous passengers. Shauna didn’t trust people who smiled too easily. They always had something to sell, and nothing in their eyes. She offered the woman a deadpan nod and moved on.

Her hands held a little bag hanging from her shoulder and the Walkman. Her bigger luggage had already been loaded with the rest of the passengers’—tucked away in the belly of the plane like a buried secret. Seat D-9. Aisle. Deliberately far from the window. She had zero interest in watching the earth shrink beneath her, knowing damn well what it felt like to fall from the sky. She wasn’t afraid of death, she told herself—but her body had its own opinion, and it was screaming in every nerve ending.

The therapist took the window seat beside her, naturally leaving the middle one empty. A considerate gesture, sure. But Shauna suspected it was also because he didn’t want to be wedged between a ticking time bomb and the outside world.

The plane wasn’t full. Maybe 50% occupied at most. The empty space around her helped—less pressure, fewer eyes. But her anxiety kept building. She fidgeted with Jackie’s necklace, her fingers tightening around the delicate chain, and tried to focus on her breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

It wasn’t new. She’d been doing this long before therapists and grounding exercises were ever offered to her.

The thought of putting on the headphones now made her stomach twist. It felt... exposed. Everyone around her would see her slipping into some kind of emotional cocoon. What if they heard her music? What if she drifted too far and lost herself right here, in front of all these strangers?

What would happen, once she summoned Jackie Taylor like a ghost with a mixtape, right in the middle of the goddamn sky?

The flight attendant stepped into the aisle, smiling like they weren’t about to describe exactly how people die when metal falls from the sky. The usual pre-flight routine began—cheery tone, exaggerated hand gestures.

Shauna watched with a fixed stare.

Emergency exits here and here. Oxygen masks will drop from the ceiling. Put yours on before helping others.

She knew that part well. Too well. How the mask jerks loose—or doesn’t. How panic makes fingers shake and fumble. How loud the silence gets in the moment between realizing something’s wrong and doing something about it.

Her throat tightened. She remembered the line of masks dangling in chaos. She remembered the sharp chemical scent of the air. The screams. The fire. The smoke.

Maybe she would have to save lifes today like Jackie did back than. Maybe not. Either way, it wasn’t a responsibility she’d asked for. Or wanted. If anything, she still believed Jackie had made the wrong choice—Van should’ve been pulled out first, not her. She didn’t want to have to make such a decision. Who first, who last.

The floor lighting. The safety card. The life vest under the seat.

She didn’t need the briefing.

She didn’t need the reminder.

She waited it out politely, expression blank, fingers clenched around the Walkman.

Once the demonstration was finally over, she didn’t hesitate. The rising heat in her chest had eclipsed whatever anxiety she’d had about being watched. Fuck it. She was already the mental patient en route to a facility for the disturbed and dangerous. Might as well go all in and be the girl with headphones and hallucinations on a Tuesday morning flight to London.

She slipped the headphones on. Pressed play.

She had made the playlist carefully—meticulously, even. Every song chosen was a piece of Jackie. Every memory she had forced down, tucked away into the deepest parts of her mind, found its echo in the lyrics. Heartache, longing, guilt—she packaged it all into music.

The therapist hadn’t asked questions. He barely looked at the list she handed over, just copied it onto a cassette like it was any other request from any other patient. But to Shauna, it was everything. She knew—hoped—that if she could just trigger the right part of her brain, hit the right note, Jackie would appear. Not as a memory. Not as grief. As her.

It was pathetic, she thought. Listening to a mixtape just to conjure up a hallucination of a dead girl. A coping mechanism dressed up in sentimentality. But she clung to it anyway.

Radiohead, The Cranberries, Sarah McLachlan. Songs to cry to. Songs to bleed to. Songs to drown in. But she wouldn’t let herself cry. Not here. Not now. Not unless she was drunk and soft enough to cling to someone just to avoid collapsing. This version of her—airborne, alert—was still iron-hearted. No tears. No frowns. No weakness. Let one thing slip, and the rest might come pouring out with it.

She glanced around the cabin. The therapist was dozing in the window seat, slack-jawed and useless. A flight attendant passed, asking something, but Shauna just shook her head without hearing the question. She needed nothing. Wanted nothing. The entire row was empty, thankfully. A small mercy.

She turned the volume up. Tried to let herself drift into the music. But she couldn’t. She kept looking around—left, right, behind. Restless. Expectant. Hoping.

But nothing.
No Jackie.

Thirty minutes in, the plane had leveled out. The worst part was over. Shauna let her body sink deeper into the seat, headphones slipping down to rest on her neck. The music still played, faint and aching. But she preferred hearing the plane now—the hum of the engines, the low rattle of turbulence, the mechanical certainty of it all. It was more comforting than silence. More predictable than the inside of her head.

Shauna breathed in. Then out. She wanted to check the time. But there was no clock in sight—just the faint glow of the one on the therapist’s wrist, out of reach, taunting her.

Should she lean over and read it?
No.
She knew herself too well. If she looked once, she’d be looking every five minutes for the next sixteen hours. Time wouldn’t pass—it would crawl.

Still, the urge clawed at her. Maybe if she just closed her eyes, rested a little, she could trick herself into a time skip. Like the blink that turns one minute into twenty. But the idea was stupid. You couldn’t make time go faster. You couldn’t manipulate the world like that. All distraction ever did was steal your awareness of time—it didn’t bend it. It just robbed you of memory.

Maybe that’s what she needed. To forget a little.

She reached for her bag, sliding it into her lap, rummaging through it with deliberate slowness. There—her journal. Blank pages, waiting to be ruined. A distraction, if nothing else. Her fingers brushed past a few essentials: a small purse, half-smashed deodorant, those health bars they gave her before discharge, and the water bottle she still hadn’t touched.

She dug deeper. More relics of her half-life: some makeup she never used but kept anyway, crumpled paper scraps, a couple of dull pencils. No sharpener, of course. Airports were strict about pointy things. As if she needed a blade. If she ever wanted someone dead, she’d never been afraid to use her hands.

Loose change clinked at the bottom. Cold metal. Her keys were there too. Truck keys. She held them in her hand for a moment, then let them drop. Her old truck. What would her mother do with it now? Probably had the spares. Probably already planning to get rid of it.

Just like she got rid of Shauna.

She ran her fingers over the worn leather of the journal before placing her bag on the floor. Blank page. Blank mind. What could she write?

A retelling of her time in the facility?
A fantasy of where she was heading—some fabricated life, stitched together just to pass the time?
Or maybe… something darker.

Back to the wilderness, maybe.

The thought hit her sideways.
What if the plane went down again?
What if it crashed before they even reached the ocean—would she land somewhere familiar?

Would that be so bad?

A quiet thrill passed through her. She leaned back, lips twitching into the faintest grin. Maybe she should wait it out. Maybe she should beg—silently, fiercely—for another fall.
She could handle it this time.
She’d be ready.
She could run the whole thing if it came to it.

She’d be the leader, finally getting to enjoy it really, before ripped away again. Anyone who would stand in her way would be removed.

She’d done it before—survived what should’ve broken her. Why not use that knowledge?
Why not take control?

Her eyes flicked toward the front of the plane. The stewardesses were chatting, unaware. The cockpit—a single door away. Just one thin barrier between order and chaos.

Funny how easy it might be.
A quick distraction. A blow to the back of the head. A twist of the wrist. The plane dips. Screams. The wilderness again.

She tilted her head slightly, calculating.

Then opened the journal and began to write.
Not a story. Not a reflection.

Plans.

A list of what she’d do if she went through with it.

Part of her knew it was fantasy. Just a game her fractured mind played to keep the panic down.

But the other part—the one that stared too long at exits, the one that never left the woods—wasn’t entirely joking.

And just like a bad omen—summoned by her scribbled thoughts of doom and control—the plane gave a light jolt.

A shiver through the floor. Barely more than a flutter.

But she felt it.

Turbulence.

It wasn’t enough to wake the therapist slumped beside her, mouth slightly open in his nap, but it was enough to tighten her grip on the journal. She clung to it like a life raft.

*It’s normal,* she told herself.

*You’ve been told this is normal.*

Still, her heart jumped against her ribs.

Why was she afraid? *Seriously, Shauna. Get it together.*

She forced herself to keep writing, to stay in the rhythm. The shaking passed as quickly as it had come, and she let out a slow breath.

*Phew. I didn’t jinx this plane into crashing after all.*

The irony made her smirk—just moments ago, she’d been fantasizing about the very thing. Wanting it, almost. Wishing for it. And yet when the plane trembled, panic bloomed instantly inside her.

Still, her pen scratched on.

She began drawing—maps, maybe. Diagrams.

A step-by-step scenario.

A twisted self-insert into a sick, speculative story.

What would it feel like to regain control that way?

To be forced to eat again? Flesh. Survival. Power.

Another jolt.

Longer this time.

She felt it through the tray beneath her arms—subtle vibrations dancing against her fingertips.

They were high now. That much she could tell.

The turbulence was likely just wind, brushing against the metal belly of the plane like some unseen beast.

But it lasted longer than she liked.

Still no movement from the therapist. Not a flinch.

*He’d probably sleep right through death,* Shauna thought. *Just pass peacefully into oblivion while I’m white-knuckled and counting bones.*

And that was the problem. She wasn’t asleep. She was alert—*aware*—and she knew exactly what kind of metal tomb she was trapped inside.

This plane was bigger than the one to nationals.

More people.

More steel.

More weight.

More ways to die.

She imagined the crash in excruciating detail—metal shearing through bone, seats collapsing, limbs bent the wrong way. The door flinging open in a split-second snap and swallowing the front row whole.

All it would take was one bad dive. One snap. One second.

And she would know exactly how her body could be torn apart.

*Relax, Shauna. Relax,* she told herself, bringing a trembling hand to her neck, fingers closing tightly around the necklace.

“Jackie,” she whispered inside her head, the name like a prayer.

*Come on. Show yourself or something.*

It was a silent demand. As if sheer willpower could yank Jackie out of the afterlife the way Shauna used to yank her back from daydreams—pulling her headphones off with a scoff, dragging her into the real world.

Maybe this was no different.

Maybe she could pull her back from death just the same.

*Let’s listen to some stupid music together, Jackie. I’ve got shitty snacks and even shittier songs, but hey—I bet it’s boring up there.*

She stared into the nothing, thinking it louder. Wishing it might *reach* her.

Then—another jolt.

More turbulence.

More shaking.

Her heart plummeted inside her chest like a stone.

*Just wind. It’s just the wind. Just the wind.*

She repeated it like a chant, a spell, a desperate mantra.

But her body didn’t believe her.

Her hands were clammy, her pulse in her ears.

She shut her eyes, trying to ground herself, trying to breathe.

*I won’t die here. I won’t give you that sick poetic justice, Jackie.*

*Not like this. Not in a metal box over the ocean. This isn’t Shauna Shipman’s end.*

Her leg bounced frantically now, knee jittering against the tray. Her fingers clutched the seat, nails digging into the fabric.

She looked around.

No one else reacted.

No wide eyes. No tension.

The therapist still snoozed beside her, completely unaware of the imaginary hell she was spiraling into.

*Okay. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe this really is fine.*

The shaking stilled.

Her breath came in shaky exhales.

But her hand didn’t loosen around the pencil.

She could feel the wood biting into her skin. She swore, if she squeezed just a little harder, it would crack and splinter right there in her palm.

Maybe the blood spilling down her hand would be a welcome feeling, distracting enough.

*Don’t manifest it, Shauna. Don’t do it. Please, you stupid idiot.*

*You can’t fucking make a plane crash with just a thought—right?*

She whispered it to herself like a curse, like a warning, as if her brain had power over gravity, over fate.

But the second she thought it—

The shaking came back.

Light at first.

Then worse.

Longer this time.

She felt it. The shift. Her body *sank* into the seat, weight dragging her down as if the plane had suddenly dropped altitude. Her fingers gripped the armrest, but it wasn’t enough. Her whole body trembled.

*This isn’t turbulence. This is something else.*

Any second now, the pilot would announce it.

*We’re going down.*

Any second.

She gasped for air, chest tightening like a fist around her lungs. Her nails scraped the seat’s plastic edge, clawing desperately for grounding. But her grip kept slipping, sweaty and wild, fingers scrabbling like she was trying to cling to life itself.

She was on the verge of hyperventilating.

Short, fast breaths—more like *panting*, really.

Like a cornered animal.

Like a dog in a heatwave, frantic and helpless.

Her eyes darted to the therapist beside her.

*Why the fuck isn’t he moving?*

He was still out cold, head lolled back like a corpse, completely oblivious.

*You asshole. You’re supposed to be responsible for me—wake the fuck up!*

If she hadn’t been strapped in, she would’ve lunged across the aisle and shaken him awake. But she couldn’t. She was one seat too far, and her hands refused to let go of the chair. As if letting go would mean letting death in.

No one else was reacting.

No one was screaming.

No cries, no panic, no announcements.

It was *absurd*.

Like she was the only one in a nightmare that no one else could see.

Why was there no voice?

No pilot.

No stewardess.

No dumb speech about light turbulence and safety belts.

She needed someone—*anyone*—to tell her what was happening.

To explain it and *reassure* her.

But there was nothing.

Just her pulse in her ears, her chest about to collapse in on itself, and the plane groaning quietly around her.

*Say something,* she begged inside her head. *Say something, goddamnit.*

It escalated.

The lights began to flicker—on, off, on again—wild and erratic like a broken signal.

Shauna felt *wind* at the back of her neck.

*Was there an opening?*

Cold air licked her skin, or maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe it was just fear manifesting as a phantom breeze. But it was *cold*. Too cold. The kind that wasn’t physical anymore—something deeper.

She couldn’t see properly.

Everything blurred at the edges. Her breath caught halfway up her throat and refused to move.

Cold sweat clung to her temples, sliding down in sticky trails.

Her hands trembled, spasmed. She reached out—didn’t even know what she was reaching for—grip gone, nerves fried.

*Please. Please. Please get me out of here,* she begged. Not aloud. Just to *something*.

A *side door*, near the back, *slid open*. Not a crack. A full-on shift, metal grinding.

Air rushed louder. She turned toward it, panic skyrocketing.

*Why is it opening? Why the fuck is it opening?!*

She glanced down to check her seatbelt—

Gone.

The buckle was *gone*.

She screamed. Just for a second. A sound that ripped from her throat, dry and cracked like it hadn’t been used in years.

Her head snapped to the left.

*Therapist—gone.*

The row—empty.

Flight attendants—*gone.*

*Everyone—gone.*

Had they already been sucked out? Flung into the sky, scattered like confetti over the ocean?

Were they splattered across some unseen surface, meat and bones and red mist?

Shauna looked down, frantic. Her nails scraped at the buckle.

No buckle.

Just her own skin.

Scratching.

Clawing.

Desperate for something to tether her to this world.

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t *move*.

She was sinking into the seat now, deeper and deeper, like the cushion itself was swallowing her whole. Foam and fabric becoming quicksand.

And then—A *laugh*.

Far away, but sharp like glass.

She didn’t turn right away. She *couldn’t*. It wasn’t a normal laugh. It didn’t sound *human*.

Just a giggle, high and cold, bouncing like a needle in her skull—coming from somewhere behind her. Mocking.

The floor beneath her feet *cracked*.

Tiles or panels—or whatever metal skin held this plane together—started to fall away.

Piece by piece.

The structure peeled like fruit, exposing a hollow, yawning black void underneath.

And Shauna knew—this wasn’t a crash.

This was *worse*.

No explosion. No fireball. No survivors.

Just her, slowly stripped of every layer of safety, every illusion of control.

The plane was unraveling. And it was taking *her* with it.

She shut her eyes.

It was all she had left. Her last resort to escape what felt inevitable.

Tears slipped out before she could stop them. Hot, unfamiliar.

She had forgotten what it felt like—to *truly* fear for her life.

She wasn’t supposed to be this weak.

But this wasn’t just a feeling. It was a *threat*. A black, yawning abyss, ready to drag her into *nothing*.

And what would be waiting on the other side?

The people she had hurt, the ones she *killed*?

Would she have to face them again, down there in the dark?

She wasn’t ready for hell.

Not yet.

And she was never one for praying—but suddenly she *wanted* to.

She tried to raise her hands, to fold them like she’d seen in movies, like it might *mean* something—but they wouldn’t move. Frozen in place.

"Fuck it," she thought bitterly. "*Then without the stupid hand folding.*"

Her lips moved silently.

*Dear whoever is responsible for this shitty world—God, or whoever—just make it quick. And painless. Please.*

She begged.

And to her shock, she felt an answer. *Warmth.* A hand touching hers.

Not imaginary—not imagined, *real*. Warm fingers sliding gently into hers, anchoring her.

She gasped.

Maybe she'd open her eyes and the nightmare would be gone. Maybe she was safe again.

She tried to open her eyes, but something stopped her.

A whisper against her ear, soft and coaxing:

*“No, not yet.”*

The hand holding hers squeezed, grounding her.

*Just take me with you,* she thought. *Jesus, Buddha, Krishna, whoever—please. Just take me.*

She heard a soft laugh, not mocking, just a sweet delight behind it.

“Jesus? *That’s* a new one.”

Jackie’s voice. Familiar. Sweet.

“Relax, Shauna… you’re safe. I promise. You’re not in danger.”

It clung to her ear like a lullaby. Her voice was like the past she *almost* believed came back to life.

The kind of voice that could wrap itself around you like a warm blanket fresh from the dryer.

And somehow, it worked.

The panic—sharp and screaming just moments before—melted.

It sizzled away like ice dropped on sunburned skin.

Her hands—Shauna realized—were no longer shaking. They were being held. Grounded. Anchored.

Fingers threaded through hers, touch feather-light at first, then firmer—Jackie’s palm pressing into the top of her hand.

Shauna could feel it—every detail. The softness between her fingers, the way Jackie’s thumb moved in slow circles across her skin, tracing silent reassurances into her bones.

That’s what she needed. Something *real*. Something to *focus on*.

She turned her hand, desperate to feel more. Bare skin to bare skin.

Needing closeness like air.

The hand returned.

Jackie’s nails trailed across Shauna’s palm—just sharp enough to awaken her nerves, not enough to hurt.

They danced slowly to the tips of her fingers, and then—

*Intertwined again.*

The thumb.

Back where it belonged, stroking gently along the ridge of her thumb like it knew exactly how to hush every storm in her chest.

Shauna’s breaths came easier.

Her ribs didn’t feel like they were being crushed anymore.

She could finally… *breathe*.

And then—quietly, like a child afraid of the answer—she whispered:

“Am I going to die?”

Like she was asking an angel.

Or maybe a ghost.

And Jackie—

The girl she loved, the girl she lost,

Felt like both.

“Don’t be silly,” Jackie whispered, her voice brushing against Shauna’s ear like wind through old curtains. “You won’t die. Not as long as I can protect you from it.”

Shauna’s breath hitched—

Tears came. Harder now. she didn’t feel relief or believed her neccessarily

Jackie could be lying. Maybe this was all just the mind softening the blow before the fall.

It was *Jackie’s kindness*—that strange, painful *kindness*.

That she would still *protect* her, she still *cared*, after everything.

Shauna thought she was her curse.

Why *should* she protect her?

But the way Jackie said it…

The way her hand squeezed hers—warm and steady and *real*—

It felt like proof.

“I… I want to see you,” Shauna breathed, voice barely a whisper. “Please… can I see you?”

Jackie’s hand tightened slightly.

“Not yet, Shauna.”

A pause, soft but full of promise.

“But I can take you to a place where you and I were together. Do you trust me?”

The question was laced with something gentle—

Something sad and sweet and full of old love.

Shauna nodded, already lost to her. “Okay.”

And just like that, Jackie began to guide her.

She felt fingers ghost along the edge of her headphones,

then the click of plastic—the cassette being turned over.

“I wonder if you remember this,” Jackie teased.

A soft whirr. A click. And then—

**“Yooo, I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want…”**

Shauna *smiled*. Instantly. Uncontrollably.

“Of course I remember.”

And she *was* there—back in Jackie’s room.

Pop music blaring through tinny speakers.

Jackie on the bed, standing tall with a brush in her hand like it was a microphone.

Singing her lungs out. Dramatic. Off-key. Glorious.

Shauna laughed. Giddy. Unselfconscious.

She joined in—voice cracking, words half-mumbled.

They were duetting like it was their sold-out stadium tour.

Two girls. A makeshift stage.

And all the time in the world.

Shauna *watched it*.

No—she *lived* it.

The memory unfolding not like a thought,

but like a room she had stepped into.

“It wasn’t the only time you and I were this carefree,” Jackie said softly, her voice now steady with warmth. “I know it felt like we could do anything together. Everything. Even if you like to tell yourself otherwise.”

She reached for Shauna’s hand again, holding it gently between hers.

“See?” Jackie was there next to her, Shauna took her sight in like she would lose it at any given time again.

The world shifted—melted into sepia tones. A reel of memories unfurling like film through light.

Older memories.

Childhood summers. Sleepovers. Whispered dreams about the future.

Pillow fights. Shared bruises and stories. Wild, make-believe plans with no limits and no fear.

Shauna’s heart sank.

Each memory a weight, beautiful and unbearable.

All those years she spent telling herself it was fake.

That Jackie had been fake. That *everything* they’d shared was some sweet little lie.

Because *hating her* made it easier.

Easier to survive the loss, when Jackie faded, became everyones favourite, not just hers.

Easier to forget the ache of once loving her *so much*.

But Jackie turned to her, eyes clear and unwavering.

“No, Shauna,” she said firmly. “That’s not why I brought you here.”

Her thumb rubbed gently across the back of Shauna’s hand.

“I need you to *see* it. That our friendship was real. *We* were real.

And you don’t have to keep rewriting that.

You choose your own narrative, Shauna. If you let yourself.

Your memories don’t need to be a curse.”

Her grip tightened just slightly—reassuring. Grounding.

“I know there was a time when it was just you and me.

No pain.

No me pulling away.

No you resenting me.”

Jackie reached up, brushing a strand of hair from Shauna’s face,

her touch so impossibly tender it made Shauna shake.

“Those moments,” Jackie whispered,

“They mean more to me than anything else.”

Shauna couldn’t stop crying.

No shield. No snark. No tough-girl deflection.

Just salt and sorrow and the ache of *finally* feeling the love once shared only between them both.

“I… I should’ve told you more often…” she tried, voice cracking.

But Jackie only smiled and shushed her, guiding her forward.

“No guilt allowed here, okay? Not in this place.”

Shauna nodded and followed.

One memory at a time.

Laughing together.

Dancing in the rain.

Exploring the shitty city like it was their playground.

Swapping stories about their first crushes.

The first awkward, stolen kisses.

Trick-or-treating until it was considered uncool.

Joining the soccer team—Shauna a nervous wreck, Jackie the bold one, earning the coach’s instant respect. Before the responsibility became burdonsome.

Memory after memory blurred the edges of time,

until the fear of falling, of crashing, of metal and death—

—faded entirely.

The world shifted again.

A haze of soft light. Jackie’s voice, gentle, teasing.
“Oh, seems like it’s time for you to wake up now, Shauna.”

Her hand gave Shauna’s shoulder a small, grounding squeeze.

“Waking up? Back to the plane crashing?” Shauna asked, breath catching.

Jackie let out a quiet laugh and shook her head.
“No. That’s something you’ll understand when you’re back.
Don’t miss me too much, alright, Shipman?”

Before Shauna could respond—before she could beg for one more moment—Jackie faded.
Just as suddenly as she’d come, she was gone.

Shauna reached out instinctively, her hand grasping for the warm fingers she’d held,
but there was nothing. Just air. Cold and empty.

The images dissolved,
the memories she’d been walking through collapsing like brittle film.
Her body felt it first—shaking. A jolt, like falling.

Had Jackie lied?
Was this the real fall?

She gasped, tried to open her eyes—and felt a hand.

Not Jackie's.

A firm, real one. On her shoulder. Shaking her gently.

“Miss Shipman?”

The voice cut through the fog. Her eyes blinked open, and there he was:
Her therapist, looming above with that perpetually calm smile.

“Time to wake up. Excuse me for the abruptness—you were out cold.”
He chuckled, beard twitching. “I’ve been trying for a while now, actually.
Impressive sleep you got there, unbothered to the core.”

Shauna blinked at him in silence.
Staring.

He had no idea.
He’d just dragged her out of the most beautiful dream she’d ever had.

She glared, and he raised a brow, switching tones as he picked up on her mood.

“We’ll be landing soon. Thought we should revisit the landing protocol.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Not a happy wake-up person, huh? Noted. Haha!”
He tried to lighten the mood again, but she only exhaled, long and sharp.

No comment.
No smile.
Just that cold, aching pit in her chest.

It had all been a dream?

She didn’t even remember falling asleep.

She checked her recorder for a moment, hoping for something—proof maybe, that it hadn’t been just a dream. The music was still playing. The B-side. The side she *hadn’t* put together. She turned it over.

And there it was.

Jackie’s handwriting.

New songs. Jackie’s favorites. Scribbled like a ghost had taken the pen straight to the tape itself. It was still spinning. Like a haunted record.

Was it real?

Or had she made this playlist herself in some blackout haze of longing? Maybe she had clung to Jackie so hard, her mind invented her handwriting. Invented her warmth. Invented the whole damn thing.

On the back, in that same familiar curve of letters:

**For Shauna.**

She wouldn’t say it aloud. This was *her* riddle. Something strange was going on in her mind. Maybe it was grief. Maybe it was madness. Maybe she was finally cracking for real.

Either way—

Welcome to England, motherfuckers.

Here’s your messed up queen, coming in for landing.

Hurray.

Chapter Text

The moment Shauna stepped off the plane, everything moved fast—customs, baggage claim, security checks. Her therapist stayed by her side the whole time, right up until they left the airport and were greeted by heavy rain and thick grey clouds. She had half-expected it. It wasn’t as cold as the sharp Canadian wind she was used to. Honestly, it was almost enjoyable. She let herself stand there for a moment, face turned toward the sky. She allowed herself to close her eyes for a moment and let the raindrops soak her hair and cool down her head from the long flight, not bothering about how this might seem to anyone else.

The people around her already made her feel like she stood out. A foreigner in a foreign country—she could feel it in the way they looked at her. No one stared outright, but she knew the moment she opened her mouth, the accent would give her away.

She was nervous about what was to come now. Exhausted, too. Apparently she’d slept through most of the sixteen-hour flight, but it didn’t feel like it. Her body ached. Her thoughts were foggy. What she needed was a bed and maybe ten hours of dreamless sleep, but the journey wasn’t over yet. From London to wherever the hell they were sending her—it was still a five-hour drive.

Menston.

That was the name she’d been told. Like that meant anything to her. Just a place on a map in a country she’d never been to. It might as well have been made up.

Her therapist gently tapped her shoulder. “Your car is here, Miss Shipman. I’m afraid this is where we part ways.”

She tilted her head, she was dreading this moment since they left the plane.

“I won’t accompany you on this leg of the journey, but should you need anything—anything at all—you have my emergency number.” He offered a kind smile. “The facility staff are connected to us, and I trust them. You're in good hands. Besides... I think a woman like you has no reason to be nervous. I believe you’ll do just fine.”

She nodded, half-heartedly. The truth was, the idea of him leaving made her anxious. He was the last familiar thing tethering her to home—a known face in this blur of strangers. And now she’d be stranded here, truly alone. The only Canadian in a sea of pale, unfamiliar faces. Nothing about this place would feel like home. Nothing but the few worn things stuffed into her bag.

Two men were waiting for her at the carpark. One held up a laminated sign with her name scrawled on it; the other nursed a cigarette like it was his last joy in life, shielding it from the wind and rain beneath a rusted metal canopy beside the car.

The vehicle itself was unsettling. All black, vaguely hearse-like—though not quite spacious enough to fit a full corpse unless you *really* committed to folding. Not exactly a comforting welcome.

Shauna stood silently while her therapist exchanged the usual formalities with the men. Something about safe transport, handover to some doctor, yadda yadda—she only half-listened. Their eyes kept drifting toward her, trying to assess what flavor of madness she carried. The kind that screamed? The kind that bit? Maybe they had tasers tucked in their coats, just in case she lunged.

One of them—a gaunt, pale guy who looked like he hadn’t seen sunlight ever—shuffled over to open the car door for her. The other, friendlier-looking one, had a patchy ginger chin beard, a massive mole on his bald scalp, and an oddly cheerful demeanor. He flicked the butt of his cigarette to the ground and let the rain finish the job before diving into small talk with the therapist.

Her luggage was already being stuffed into the trunk by mole-guy. Meanwhile, Shauna was waved toward the open back seat with a polite but exhausted welcome:

“Welcome to England—hope the travel wasn’t *too* exhaustin’. Go on, take a seat if you fancy. We’ll be drivin’ soon, just need to get through the informals an’ the standard stuff.”

His accent hit her like a slap—so thick and local she barely understood half of it, probably also because he spoke so fast, she was afraid he tried really hard to choke on his own words. For a second, she just looked confused at him. Then, silently, she climbed in with a nod.

After what felt like an eternity of awkward stalling, the pale guy finally seemed to decide whether sitting in the car with her or lingering in the rain was worse. Maybe it was the way she looked—like her stare alone could kill a man—but eventually, he slid into the passenger seat. Probably only because his partner had finally finished his last cigarette and stopped yammering with her therapist about whatever it was middle-aged men loved to ramble about.

Her therapist approached her window and motioned for her to roll it down. She hesitated, annoyed by how long it always took, and cracked it open just enough to hear him. He’d think she was trying to keep the rain out. In truth, she just didn’t feel like dealing with the cranky mechanism.

“Well,” he began with that ever-calm smile, “seems you’ll be escorted now, Miss Shipman. Do you feel ready to go?”

The question lingered longer than it should have. It was her last chance to say no. To jump out of the car and follow him back to the airport. Back to what was familiar, even if what was familiar wanted nothing to do with her.

She seriously considered it. All of it was starting to feel too real—the damp air, the unfamiliar sounds, the sheer foreignness of this place. The way the car smelled different, the way the slightest sounds felt so different than at home. It all made her chest tighten. Homesickness crept into her, wrapping around her ribs, choking her from the inside. She was about to be alone in a car with two strangers, trusting them to deliver her safely to a facility she knew nothing about.

Going back wasn’t an option either. Her mother had made that clear,, she wasn’t wanted. The others… well, they were done with her too. She knew it, she told it to herself often enough.

The tears welled up but she forced them back, forced herself not to cry, still a motion that didn’t went unnoticed by her therapist.

“I can join you on the car ride to the facility, if needed,” the therapist offered gently. “I understand if this is all a bit much right now.” He was not prepared to join her further but her expression was reason enough for him to make sure she would make it there safe and as comfortable as possible. She never shwed such a vulnerablity, he wouldn’t leave her, knowing she was not ready for what was to come yet. But both would have to accept that eventually, she had to face the new life soon.

His voice grounded her. That offer, simple as it was, felt like at least a relief of the things she dreaded for now another five hours. Something like stability. A piece of home, even if it was just professional courtesy. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

He turned to the men next to him and asked if his presence would be an issue. The man shrugged it off—they didn’t care, as long as she got where she was meant to go. He’d have to find his own way back to the airport later, but that wasn’t her burden to carry. He didn’t make it hers.

He just got in the car beside her. Being alone felt unbearable to her right now, and he could sense it. Finally doing his job right for once and give her the kind of reassurance she needed.

Once all three men were in the car, the engine rumbled to life—and so began the longest five hours of her goddamn life.

Shauna regretted letting the therapist tag along almost immediately. At first, it seemed like a good idea—but as soon as they hit the road, the conversations started. And it didn’t stop. They rambled about nothingness, god and the world, wifes and kids, work troubles, football teams non agreed on the same one they liked, heated conversations about west world issues non of them truly understood, etc. Worse yet, they all slipped into this patronizing, sing-song tone like they were talking to a child, when ever they did felt like talking to her.

“Oh, no worries about the drive, might confuse you, young lady,” one of them said in a uncomfortably sweet voice, “we drive on the other side of the road here, but that’s just your standard Brit drive for ya!”

They practically burst into laughter when they saw her confused face, staring down at the road, the car moving in a direction that just felt *wrong*. It wasn’t like she didn’t *know* they drove on the left here—it was just different, unsettling, like everything else.

“Aw, that’s precious,” one of them chuckled. “The girl’s so confused. Just wait till she experiences a full Brit meal—it’ll blow your socks off, I tell ya.”

“Yeah, or the bloody sheep all over the road every mornin,” the other chimed in. “Better hope she doesn’t get too many outdoor activities. Takes you ages to get around ‘em.”

They kept going like that—talking over her, around her, never *to* her. Even when she understood every word, it all felt like background noise. Dull, pointless topics about rain and football over and over, and “proper chips.” When they weren’t cracking jokes at her expense, they were just being painfully, *insufferably* boring.

Her therapist, for some reason, had the time of his life. Laughing along, swapping small-town stories with these guys like he’d known them forever. He even mentioned staying an extra day just to go to a pub with them.

She wanted to throw herself out of the car. Open the door mid-drive and just roll into traffic. The idea was genuinely tempting.

The only thing stopping her—besides basic survival instinct—was the occasional look from her therapist. He’d glance at her with a soft, empathetic expression, a tiny anchor. Not that she *liked* him necessarily, but she knew his damn face. That was enough.

If it were just her and the other two, she’d have to choose between awkward silence or forced engagement. And she wasn’t feeling up to any of that, knowing she would probably fake sleep and ignore their existance.

After the longest drive of her life, Shauna finally saw a winding path stretching toward a building nestled in what could only be described as a dreamy, unsettling landscape. The road was made of tiny gravel stones, crunching under the wheels like bones being ground down. It led straight to a facility planted in the middle of endless green, the kind of open space where you could run for hours without seeing another human soul—or worse, run for hours and still not find your way back to civilization.

The car turned onto a modest entrance beside a small bus stop and a parking lot barely large enough for a handful of vehicles. Among them sat a short, battered-looking truck—clearly a patient transport vehicle. Probably reserved for the *really* troubled ones, the kind who couldn’t be trusted in the backseat of a normal car.

The front garden tried its best to appear soft and peaceful, with green bushes and lilac-blue flowers lining the path to the building. But nothing could disguise the cold efficiency of it all. A gate marked the final stretch, leading to a pair of tall, black wooden doors—two slabs of dark wood that loomed like the gates of hell.

No welcome committee. No staff waiting outside with soft smiles or clipboards. Just the building itself, still and silent, as if holding its breath. Waiting to devour its next victim.

“Alright, Miss Shipman, I think I’ve bothered you long enough,” the therapist said with a soft smile. “But if you’d like, I can walk you inside before we part ways?”

Shauna shook her head. That tight coil of fear and dread had loosened. She didn’t feel like running anymore. She was just exhausted—bone-deep tired—and all she wanted was a place to lie down. Even if it was just a mattress on the floor.

The therapist nodded and stepped out of the car with her. One of the men retrieved her luggage and placed it by the door, waiting there silently beside it.

“I’ll bring you to the entrance,” the therapist continued, “and then someone inside will take over, get you checked in and settled. Usually the parents lead the kids inside, but in this case…” He gave her a small, encouraging look. “You’ve got this, alright?”

She nodded again.

“One last chance to make a run for it, Miss Shipman,” he joked, voice light but edged with something else.

She didn’t smile. “Nowhere to run to.”

The air between them shifted—he didn’t press the subject. No therapy session here, not now. Just one final offer.

“Well,” he said quietly, “if you ever *do* feel like running, you know how to reach me.”

She gave a small nod. Then, without asking for help, she bent down to grab her own luggage and slung her bag over her shoulder. She didn’t need him to carry her things.

He nodded again, this time with a trace of admiration, and stepped aside to hold the door open for her.

The other two men went back into the car, engine still running, making it clear: they wouldn’t be here long.

Shauna paused for a moment at the threshold, eyes lifting to take in the building’s clocktower as it reached into the gray sky above her. The structure looked like it might’ve once been a school—stern, stately, and old—but now it served a new purpose: a sanctuary for the unstable, the unwanted, and everyone who thought a little *too* far outside society’s lines.

She took her first few steps inside.

To her surprise, the atmosphere wasn’t sterile or cold. Quite the opposite. The walls were dressed in a faded, brown-yellow wallpaper adorned with curling leaf patterns. Dark wooden columns broke up the space, adding structure to the wide, open rooms. It felt less like an institution and more like an aging grandmother’s sitting room—or one of those old pension lodges where guests stayed indefinitely.

And maybe, under the circumstances, that wasn’t far from the truth. Who knew if this wouldn’t become her forever home? At least it wasn’t prison.

“Goodbye then, Miss Shipman,” her therapist said behind her, stopping at the door. “The rest is up to you now.”

She turned back, meeting his gaze with a tired but genuine nod. “Thank you.”

He hadn’t exactly been the therapist of the year, but he had tried. He’d done his job with a degree of care that deserved to be acknowledged. She meant it.

The door closed softly behind him, and Shauna was alone.

Ahead and slightly to the right was a window inset into the wall—small, with a sliding slit barely big enough to speak through or pass paper. A reception desk, most likely. A checkpoint. A place to check in and give yourself up.

She sighed, adjusted the strap of her bag, and moved forward. Nerves tightened her chest, but she pushed herself forward anyway.

Behind the glass sat an older woman, short gray hair curling slightly under the edges of a knitted cardigan. She wore a dress that screamed flea market and looked like she’d just been caught dozing off in a warm patch of sun. But as soon as she saw Shauna approaching, her face lit up.

“Hello, dearly,” she said, her voice soft and warm like chamomile tea. “Come in, darling. You must be Shauna Shipman, right?”

It was the kind of voice you trusted instantly. One that made you feel like—for a moment—maybe things wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Yeah,” Shauna nodded and returned the woman’s smile, polite but tired.

“Splendid, darling. We’ve been expecting you.” The woman beamed. “Welcome to *High Royds*. We’re very glad to have you here, truly. You must be *exhausted* after such a long journey.”

Her voice was soft and melodic, every word carefully chosen to soothe. “We usually let our new guests rest their first night—settle in a bit—before you meet your doctors and therapists. If you’d like, leave your luggage with me, and it’ll be brought to your room shortly. In the meantime, feel free to look around. Supper’s not far off.”

She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice in a conspiratorial, comforting way. “And if you have any questions, you can always come to me. I’m *Mary*. You’ll also find staff members all around—we wear nametags so you can find us easily. Don’t hesitate to ask anything, alright? Now, all I need from you is your I.D., and you’re all set, dear.”

She gave another warm, grandmotherly smile—the kind of woman who, if she knew Shauna needed a hug, would offer one uninvited. The kind whose presence made you want one, even if you hated being touched. Which Shauna kind of did. At least lately.

Shauna reached into her coat pocket, handed over her I.D. through the little slit in the glass, then let her luggage slide to the floor beside the window—except for the small pouch she kept clutched tightly to her side. Some things… she wouldn’t trust with anyone.

“Someone will be along shortly to show you around,” Mary continued. “They’ll give you the essentials, help you get settled in your room. Welcome again, sweetheart. I know it’s all a bit overwhelming right now, but don’t you worry—we’re here to make it as easy as possible for you.”

There was something strangely comforting about her—like a woman who didn’t understand personal boundaries but made up for it with tea and *very* impressive banana bread. The kind of nosy kindness that reminded Shauna, alarmingly, of Misty.

She shook her head slightly at the thought and wandered toward the small waiting area nearby. It barely fit more than three chairs, clearly designed for quick check-ins and farewells. She sat down quietly, the pouch in her lap, and waited, looking around the coridors and inspected what she could already reach with her view.

There was a strange, intriguing energy in the air.

It felt like someone had tried to decorate the inside of Buckingham Palace—but let a dozen old grannies do it on a flea market budget. Everything *looked* like it might once have been fancy, if it weren’t for the subtle secondhand-store aura clinging to every edge. The colors were muted, the windows small, but hidden among the dated wallpaper and mismatched furniture were little gems: stained-glass panes cut into shapes of wildflowers and curling vines, casting colored light across the floor; rugs with intricate, hand-woven patterns that hinted at another era. It had a strange kind of charm—like a haunted antique shop that didn’t know it was haunted.

Shauna had never seen anything quite like it.

Wooden doors lined the hallway, each one shut and silent. Somewhere deep in the building, voices murmured faintly—too far away and muffled to make out. But what struck her most was the *emptiness*. No movement. No echo of footsteps. It felt like barely anyone was living here at all.

She passed the time studying every detail, cataloging it in her mind like she was walking through a dream someone else once had.

Eventually, a figure emerged from the far end of the hall—a woman in a crisp white uniform, her hair pulled back so tightly it looked like it might snap. She moved with stiff efficiency, her steps echoing slightly off the wooden floor.

“Shauna Shipman?” the woman asked, her voice clipped and professional. No warmth. A stark contrast to the sweet old lady behind the glass. This one was here to *work*, not care.

Shauna didn’t mind. As long as she wasn’t secretly harboring a hatred for patients born from repressed trauma or unresolved daddy issues, she’d take it.

“Follow me,” the woman said dryly, already turning without waiting for a reply.

She followed the woman down the hall, then into a long, narrow corridor. The lights above buzzed faintly, one of them flickering in uneven pulses that threw restless shadows across the floor. The atmosphere felt oddly familiar. It reminded her of the cabin—the way firelight used to tremble along the wood-paneled walls, how whispers at night sometimes sounded just like laughter.

The memory clung to her like smoke. It felt like PTSD—though she always claimed she *pretended* to have it more than believed she actually did. Still, the echo it left in her bones was undeniable.

Shauna trailed just a few steps behind the woman, whose stride was sharp and purposeful, like she was trying to outpace her. If only she knew—Shauna could have passed her a hundred times over if she wanted to. The thought made her lips twitch, but she bit the inside of her cheek instead, hard, trying to ground herself—trying to keep stray thoughts at bay.

They moved past an open room that looked like a dining hall. Long tables, mismatched chairs, the faint scent of overcooked vegetables clinging to the air.

“Breakfast is at seven, lunch at twelve, dinner at six. Do not miss them,” the woman said curtly.

She handed Shauna a sheet of paper—a daily schedule printed in blocky, mechanical font. It felt heavier than it should’ve, like someone had swapped out the paper for lead.

“The next room is for one-on-one therapy. You’ll see the weekly sessions posted next to the door—make sure to check it every morning. If your name’s there and you miss it, you’ll be reprimanded.”

No room for questions. No softness in her tone. Just routine. Shauna didn’t mind it, really—routine felt safer than forced empathy sometimes.

The tour was quick, as if rehearsed a hundred times over. Therapy rooms. A group session space. A small gym. A sports room that smelled faintly of old sneakers and cleaning alcohol. The hallway to the bedrooms. A side door leading to the outside gardens. A medic’s office tucked behind thick glass and linoleum walls.

“This is a smaller community,” the woman continued. “Currently, we house thirty patients. In the past, we had over sixty, but due to budget restrictions, we’ve scaled down. You are our thirtieth. You were extremely fortunate to be accepted on such short notice. We were informed your case required immediate placement.”

Her voice held no judgment, but Shauna could feel it. The unspoken *so what the hell did you do* hanging in the air. She wondered what they’d told them. What version of her existed in their files. What kind of freak she looked like on paper. She’d love to sneak a peek.

“We are a team of three therapists, one janitor, four kitchen staff, two secretaries, two medics, and about six general caretakers. Plus security. You are safe here with us. If you need anything, you may address me as Mrs. Sackler.”

Shauna nodded, holding the schedule in one hand, her bag in the other.

They stopped near the end of the corridor. The door looked no different from the others—plain, wooden, with the number *209* etched in black on a small golden plaque. The woman opened it without ceremony.

Shauna stepped inside.

It wasn’t what she expected.

No sterile white walls. No barred bedframe in the middle of the room. No eerie silence waiting to suffocate her. Instead, it looked... cozy. Lived-in. Like a dorm room at a nice college or a very well-kept boarding house. It had the same vintage warmth as the building's entrance hall—soft-toned wallpaper, a neatly made bed with floral sheets, a window that overlooked a sprawling garden full of blooms and color.

There was even a small section outside that looked like a community garden—tiny plots of soil marked by hand-painted signs, crooked little decorations that looked homemade. Maybe patient projects. Maybe something else entirely.

“This will be your room, you can decorate it to your liking, but we forbid pictures on the walls and no moving or removing of any furniture. Rooms are expected to be held clean and will be controlled by the staff once a week for any things that should not be brough into the facility. No drugs, alcohol, sharp objects or food. All other rules are written on paper on your desk, you can read through that later.” the woman said flatly.

Shauna gave a small nod as she scanned the rest: a desk tucked into the corner, a modest wardrobe, and a side door that opened into a cramped bathroom—just enough space to shower and not cry about it. The whole room felt... manageable. Almost peaceful.

"You’ll have your first session with Dr. Whitmore tomorrow at nine," the woman continued, her voice still dripping with forced politeness.

Shauna nodded, her eyes still taking in her new room.

"If you have further questions, you know where the office is. Sleeping times start at ten. No more loud noises and check-ins are at midnight. We expect patients to be in their beds. A good rest is mandetory for a good healing process. Wake up is at 6, we knock twice and come in to wake you up once, everything else is your responsibility. We will be having our supper in twenty, you can now unpack and settle. " the woman said with no real hint of warmth, she left the room just as fast, Shauna did not have any questions but even if she did, it didn’t seem like that woman was eager to explain anything further.

The woman left without a word, the door left wide open behind her.

Shauna already hated that. Open doors. No locks. No sense of control. Just a room anyone could walk into at any moment. A fake kind of privacy—one of the many privileges the “crazies” weren’t allowed to have.

She stood there for a long moment, breathing in the stale, slightly floral air. Too clean. Like they were trying to scrub the walls of memory.

Her fingertips grazed the edge of the desk, catching on a splinter of rough wood. Her suitcase and bag were already waiting for her by the bed, dutifully delivered. She didn’t have the energy to unpack. She didn’t even want to sit.

Her stomach turned at the thought of food—new cuisine, unfamiliar flavors. Whatever they’d serve here, it would taste like dust and boiled disappointment. She wasn’t hungry anyway.

She drifted toward the window. The rain had stopped, but the fog still clung to the world outside like a damp sheet. She could see her breath fog up the glass and leaned in, exhaling sharply until it clouded. She drew a smiley face in the condensation, then stared at it. A weak imitation of joy.

She wasn’t happy. She was overwhelmed.

Two new faces and she already felt like hiding. One woman had been so sweet it made her teeth ache. The other looked like the type to take pleasure in smacking rulers across knuckles—if that was still allowed here. Maybe in England, it was.

A shiver ran down her spine. Not from the cold in the room—but from the cold she carried inside her. The kind that didn’t show in breath but stole it. A familiar chill, one she’d stopped trying to shake.

"Nice place you got here," Jackie’s voice whispered from behind.

Shauna didn’t react at first. She just sat on the edge of the bed, hands in her lap, heart heavy. “Yep. Super cozy, as you can see. Probably more your style, with all the fancy knick-knacks and fake homey charm.”

Jackie chuckled softly. “You’re not wrong. I do like the decor. But it’s missing my flair. Needs more pastels—less of this mustard-colored sadness on the walls.”

She walked past Shauna, fingers lightly tracing the wallpaper. Shauna exhaled. Despite everything, Jackie being here lifted something off her chest. At least she wasn’t alone.

“It’s a shitty place,” Shauna muttered. “Deborah really thought she did me a favor sending me here.”

“I told you,” Jackie replied, tone gentle but pointed. “Your anger issues were going to land you in a place like this eventually. You keep refusing help—what did you expect?”

Shauna shot her a glare, but they both knew she wasn’t wrong.

“If you’re so wise, how do you explain the fact that she hasn’t reached out once? Not a call, not a fucking letter. Nothing. She just... cut me off like I never existed.” She stood abruptly, pacing. “I wonder what she’s telling the others—how her daughter just *disappeared*.”

Jackie sat down on the bed, hands folded neatly. “Are you really surprised? You nearly choked her to death. And honestly, maybe it’s for the best. You don’t need her right now. What you need is to finally let someone help you.”

Shauna scoffed. “I liked you better when you were just mocking me instead of acting like my therapist. You always show up, tell me to fix myself, and then vanish whenever it suits you.”

“You don’t have to care about what I say. But don’t blame me for being here when *you’re* the one who keeps dragging me back.”

Shauna stopped pacing.

“I *am* glad you’re here,” she admitted. “I don’t think I could do this without at least one familiar face.”

Jackie tilted her head. “Sure you are. You’ve always known how to use me when you needed me. Not that you ever cared what *I* wanted.”

“That’s not true. I do care.”

“If you did,” Jackie said quietly, “you’d let me go. You’d actually try to get better. But instead you just keep sinking, dragging everyone down with you.”

Jackie gave her a small smile—the kind that said *you know I’m right*, and that made it worse.

“Anyway,” she added, “shouldn’t you be off making friends with the other patients? Dinner time and all that.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Right, I forgot—you’ve always preferred the company of ghosts and corpses over real people.”

Shauna sighed and dropped back down on the bed. “I’m too tired for this. I just want to rest. One night. One more night before I give into… whatever *this* is.” She gestured vaguely at the room, the facility, the future she hadn’t signed up for.

“Whatever you need, Shauna. It’s your life. Your choice.” Jackie stood again, her expression shifting—sadder now, with a thread of warning stitched into her voice. “Just don’t get too comfortable thinking I’ll always be here. With the meds, the therapy… there’s a good chance you’ll lose me. Either you walk out of this place alone, or you get stuck in here forever. And they won’t let someone out who still talks to ghosts.”

Shauna’s jaw tightened. “No. I’ll make sure they don’t see. Whatever happens... I’m keeping you.”

Jackie gave a short, breathy laugh. “We’ll see about that, Shipman.”

“Just stay with me tonight, Jackie,” Shauna said softly, not quite looking at her. “And maybe—just this once—don’t mock me? I’m really exhausted. I don’t want to be alone.”

Jackie glanced at the narrow bed and raised an eyebrow. “Bit small for two, don’t you think? But... if you promise not to fumble around in your sleep, I *might* consider it.”

Shauna tilted her head, rolling her eyes. “Come on. I don’t remember *you* ever having a problem with that. Actually, if anyone minded, it was me.”

Jackie smirked. “Yeah, well, that was *before* I knew you don’t mind cuddling with ice-cold dead meat.”

Shauna groaned, dragging a hand over her face. “Fine. Whatever. Then don’t. I’m not going to *beg* you.”

She turned away, grabbing her bag and starting to unpack without looking back.

“If you don’t want to, I’m not forcing you.”

Jackie laughed, stepping up behind her. “God, Shipman, you’re so desperate. It’s honestly kind of cute.”

Before Shauna could throw something at her, Jackie slid her arms around her waist, pulling her close from behind.

“Don’t be such a baby,” she whispered near her ear. “I like it when you pout. But you always get so bitchy when you don’t get what you want.”

Shauna turned in her arms, brows furrowed in that familiar frustration that never really reached her heart when it came to Jackie. Their eyes met, tension buzzing between them, electric and old and full of things they never said aloud.

Jackie grinned, all teeth. “Come on, Shipman. Smile for me.”

Shauna tried to resist, but her lips tugged upward—just a little, just enough.

“There we go. Not so hard, was it?”

Jackie pressed her forehead briefly to Shauna’s. “I’ll stay. But you have to promise me something.”

“What?”

“You sleep. And tomorrow... you go to your appointment with the doctor.”

Shauna hesitated, eyes flicking away, then back. She nodded. “Okay. I promise.”

Shauna spent the next few hours settling in. She stuffed clothes into the dresser, not neatly—just enough to find things when she needed them. Her most precious possessions were hidden with far more care. The diaries were slipped not just under the mattress, but *into* it, wedged deep within a cut she made in the fabric. Someone might find them eventually, sure—but not unless they were seriously digging. Right beside them: the box of keepsakes, old tokens and secrets too sacred for the outside world.

Her dad’s blanket was already tucked beneath her pillow, a worn patch of comfort she’d never admit she needed.

The rule sheet lay on her desk now, a crisp white list of don’ts. Don’t harm yourself. Don’t harm others. Don’t run away. Don’t have fun, basically. She reread it with a sigh.

Jackie, still lounging across the bed like it was hers, kept up a slow drizzle of commentary.

“I’m honestly surprised you’re not freaking out yet,” she said between idle glances at Shauna. “Last time I stood this close to you, you had a full-blown existential crisis over, what, being a bit drunk and maybe crazy?”

Shauna didn’t look up, her eyes scanning the same paragraph again. “Guess I’m getting used to it,” she muttered. “Besides... maybe I need this right now. I’m already *in* the institution. What would be the point of freaking out?”

She paused, glancing at Jackie. “I’m not saying I’m crazy, though. I’m not. For all I know, *you* might be real. Maybe I’m trapped in *your* dream—watching you enjoy my slow descent into madness.”

Jackie blinked. “If this was my dream, I’d imagine something way nicer than rotting away in a trauma drama and watching you become Hannibal Lecter’s long-lost niece.”

“Oh, *please*.” Shauna scoffed. “You didn’t even *like* that movie. And I haven’t done anything... Hannibal-y in forever.”

Jackie raised an eyebrow. “No, but I do feel like Clarice sometimes. Stuck here, playing mind chess with you until your hunger’s satisfied.” She grinned. “Besides, you *did* eat me. So... Shaunable Lecter. Face-eater. Not quite how I wanted to be devoured, but hey—I wasn’t given much of a say.”

Shauna spun in her chair, fixing her with a glare. “You are *so* disgusting.”

Jackie laughed loudly. “No, it *fits* you perfectly.”

Shauna stood up with a huff. “Whatever. I’m going to bed.”

She walked over to the dresser and grabbed her pajamas. Jackie watched with an unbothered smirk.

“Ooh la la, a private peep show. Show off, Shipman.”

“Shut up. Don’t make it weird.”

Shauna flipped her the finger mid-change. Jackie only grinned wider.

When she was done, she sat on the bed, the room now dim, shadows softening the edges. It was quiet—too quiet.

“You’re scared to go to bed,” Jackie said, her tone gentler now.

Shauna didn’t answer at first. “It’s just... new place, new people, new bullshit. Not exactly thrilled.”

“Don’t forget what you promised me.”

“I didn’t,” Shauna replied. “I’ll go.”

She lay down with her back to Jackie, hoping she wouldn’t need to ask. And after a beat, she felt the mattress shift behind her. Jackie slid in without a word, curling in close, her body cool as always—like she’d stepped out of a freezer and into her skin again.

“Almost like a normal sleepover,” Jackie murmured. “Just missing some bad movie, greasy pizza, and your old bedroom that didn’t smell like antique soap.”

“Yeah,” Shauna muttered. “Now shut up and let me sleep.”

Jackie chuckled once, then rested a hand on her shoulder. She pressed closer, the shape of her against Shauna’s back a ghost of comfort.

“I might feel cold,” Jackie whispered, “but did I ever tell you I can feel your warmth?”

Shauna blinked, surprised. “What?”

Jackie smiled into her shoulder. “Still a big-ass teddy bear, huh? I wonder if you’ll ever let someone else cuddle up to you like this again.”

“What does it matter?”

“Just asking.”

There was no answer. Just the dark.

“Good night,” Shauna said finally.

Jackie draped her arm over Shauna’s waist, holding her like a promise.

“Good night, Shauny.”

And quickly, Shauna fell asleep in her arms, felt comfort and a weird sense of normalty.

The next day, Shauna didn’t wake up on time.

She’d slept heavier than she had in weeks, maybe months—buried in the cold comfort of Jackie’s breath at her ear, the quiet presence behind her lulling her into something almost like peace. She hadn’t even noticed the check-in during the night. The world had dulled and drifted while she floated through it, safe in her denial, safe in the arms of someone who didn’t exist.

The knock hit her ears like a gunshot.

She startled upright as the door swung open before she could say a word. A nurse entered briskly, uniform crisp, face polite but impersonal.

“Good morning, Miss Shipman,” she said, her tone too cheery for the hour. “We have your daily medication. It’s advised you take them now—we checkmark compliance. Please.”

She stepped forward and held out a small paper cup with two pills inside, offering it like communion.

Shauna blinked, barely registering her surroundings. The bed felt colder without Jackie. Her arm reached toward where Jackie had been, just in case.

Nothing.

Her voice was dry, hoarse. “Medication?”

The nurse smiled. Not warmly—professionally. “Dr. Whitmore’s orders. It’s part of your therapy. Standard procedure.”

Shauna squinted into the cup. “What are they?”

“Antipsychotics and antidepressants,” the nurse replied smoothly. “If you have further questions, I advise you to speak to your therapist. Please take them now—this is mandatory for your recovery.”

Shauna stared at the pills a moment longer. Every part of her wanted to refuse. Not out of rebellion, just... instinct. She didn’t want to lose what little clarity she had—didn’t want to blur Jackie out of existence with pharmaceuticals. But she also wasn’t in the mood to start her first full day here with a fight.

She took the cup. Swallowed the pills dry.

They left a chalky bitterness on her tongue. Her face twisted at the taste, but the nurse didn’t flinch—just took the cup back and set it on her tray.

“Your appointment is soon,” she said. “Better get up and get ready. And please make sure you eat—medication on an empty stomach is discouraged.” She turned toward the door, then added, “Hopefully you’ll catch lunch. We don’t like medicating without food, okay?”

Shauna nodded sluggishly. The door shut with a soft click behind the nurse.

She turned around, expecting Jackie to be there. Ready with a sarcastic remark. A complaint. A smirk. *Anything.*

But the bed was empty.

She stared at the spot where Jackie had been last night. The slight dent in the pillow could have been hers. Or it could have just been from Shauna curling up around her blanket.

She let out a long breath and sank back down.

Jackie disappearing like that wasn’t *unusual*. She came and went like a stray cat—whenever it suited her. The timing was irritating, but not surprising.

Still... Shauna felt the absence.

She lay there for another minute, the bitter aftertaste of the pills still clinging to her throat. Her stomach turned, but she didn’t move. Instead, she stared at the ceiling, remembering the promise she made to Jackie—to try. To at least *try* and let this place be the start of something vaguely resembling a healthier future.

Maybe this time would be different from all the failed attempts to “fix” her back home. At least here, she didn’t have to pretend she wasn’t angry. They *expected* her to be a feral child. Maybe she could finally stop holding that part in.

But how healthy could her life really become, when the worst—and best—parts of it had to stay hidden? No one here knew what she’d done. What they’d *all* done.

No one but Jackie. Jackie, who was always there. The silent witness to the wilderness. Her mirror, her judge, her constant. If she had to be alone with anyone, at least it was someone who already knew the darkest corners of her.

So Shauna made a choice.

She swung her legs off the bed, rubbed her face, and stood up—to go meet her new best friend: some old guy with a license to hand out prescriptions for the hardest drugs imaginable and decide whether you needed a lobotomy, or just a few hours of knitting tea cozies with strangers who talked to plants.

**Dr. Whitmore**—the name was printed in large, gleaming letters on the office door, like a plaque meant to remind everyone how many degrees he had and how much they should praise him for it.

Shauna smirked bitterly.

*Big deal.*

She could’ve earned a PhD too, if she’d given a damn.

It wasn’t like she was stupid.

She’d been good at science. Good at school. Hell, she was the best damn sprinter on their entire team.

If she wanted to, she could’ve had her name on a door like that.

But what for?

Saving lives? Healing minds? That was never her dream. Not after the wilderness. Not after *Jackie*.

She knocked.

A muffled voice answered from inside, dry and deliberate:

“Come in.”

Typical old man voice—flat, not unfriendly, but definitely expecting. Not quite warm. Not quite cold.

Shauna opened the door and stepped into the small office. It wasn’t any bigger than her room, with barely more of a view. But every inch of wall was swallowed by shelves stacked with folders and overstuffed binders, threatening to burst at the seams.

The air smelled faintly of coffee and a mild, old-fashioned aftershave—surprisingly pleasant.

Behind the desk sat a balding man with glasses slightly too small for his face. He didn’t speak at first. Just nodded, gesturing to the chair across from him.

Shauna sat.

He studied her. Stern, but not judgmental.

One of those people who wouldn’t tolerate bullshit—but might actually *listen*.

“Welcome to our institute, Miss Shipman,” the man began, folding his hands calmly over a thick file in front of him. “I’m Dr. Whitmore, your assigned psychiatrist during your stay here. I’ve been made aware of your situation—and the urgency of your admission—by your former therapist back in Canada. We’ve also had brief contact with your mother. Based on those reports, we have a general overview of your condition, but I’d like to hear from you directly.”

He looked up at her now, steady and unreadable.

“What do *you* believe brought you here? And what do *you* think we can help you with?”

Shauna almost laughed.

*Isn’t that your job to know?*

But she didn’t say it. She leaned back slightly instead, eyes drifting around the cluttered room.

“Hm,” she muttered. “I’m assuming… because of my anger issues? The tendency to lash out. Hurting people. And probably the hallucinations too.”

Dr. Whitmore gave a slow nod. No reaction, just processing.

“I would say,” she continued with a flat shrug, “that you’ll probably throw me into some kind of therapy—anger management, maybe.”

“Usually, yes,” he replied. “But in your case, we’re beginning with a different approach. High medication and close supervision. You’ll be excluded from group sessions for now. Once the medication stabilizes your system—and we’ve monitored the hormonal changes—we’ll reassess whether traditional anger management is needed.”

He adjusted his glasses, tone calm but firm.

“You’ll begin with one-on-one therapy. The goal is to establish a stable foundation where you can feel safe enough to explore and share what overwhelms you. We’ll work together on coping mechanisms that don’t involve violence or self-harm.”

Shauna didn’t move. She just stared, her face unreadable.

“There’s structure here,” he went on. “Daily routines. Communal workshops. You’ll be invited to participate in mindfulness training and emotional regulation techniques—meditation, breathing exercises. We put special focus on physical activity. Running. Swimming. Gym sessions. That kind of release helps channel and diffuse internal energy.”

He paused a beat longer, then spoke more gently.

“As for the hallucinations… we’ve already begun a treatment protocol. The medication will help reduce their presence over time. Given the trauma and stress of your recent months—returning home, the weight of everything you’ve endured—it’s not uncommon for the mind to latch onto comfort. Sometimes that comfort appears as vivid imagery. In some cases, patients experience touch, sound, even emotional connection.”

Shauna stiffened slightly.

“Whatever the nature of it,” he continued, “we’ll work together to help your mind find rest again. You don’t have to carry it alone anymore. You can start focusing on your *reality*—and on your future.”

Shauna’s expression shifted. She looked suddenly younger—scared. Like someone had ripped away a protective layer of skin and left her bare in front of a stranger. *Clocked.* So quickly, so easily. Just a few sentences, and Jackie’s presence—her entire existence—was reduced to a symptom. Rationalized. Tucked into a clinical folder under “hallucination due to trauma.”

What if there were others out there like her? With their own *Jackies*?

The thought made her stomach turn.

*Maybe they called theirs something else. Maybe they saw them, heard them, like she did.*

Maybe she had never *really* been in reality since the crash.

That was the most terrifying thought of all.

To consider a life outside of the comforting chaos she’d built—outside the bubble of flickering candlelight and whispered arguments and cold ghostly hugs—meant admitting she might lose Jackie.

Just as Jackie herself had warned her.

Or rather—her subconscious, wearing Jackie’s voice.

Shauna swallowed hard, her voice breaking into the sterile room.

“But… what if the medication doesn’t help?”

Her eyes locked onto the doctor’s. She needed to know—*really* know—what would happen if Jackie wasn’t just a glitch. If she couldn’t be silenced with chemicals. Would they sedate her into submission? Use electroshock, like they had with Lottie? Would they erase her?

Dr. Whitmore didn’t flinch.

“Give it a chance first,” he said gently. “I assure you, it will likely have the effect we’re hoping for. It’s rare that a manifestation persists after proper treatment begins. But even if it does, we have connections to neurological specialists. If needed, we’ll bring in support to better understand your case.”

He paused, giving her space to breathe.

“I promise you—everything we do here is designed to support, not strip you. We understand that, for some, these hallucinations serve a purpose—stability, safety, even companionship. And with their absence, there can be grief. That’s something we’ll honor too.”

Shauna stared, unsure if she wanted to scream or sob.

He was saying *all the right things*, and that scared her even more.

“We’ll help you find new anchors,” he continued, “real people, real friendships, even from a distance. You’ll have other things to hold on to. And importantly: if you feel discomfort at any time, we’ll listen. The medication isn’t forced. We encourage a full four-week trial so your body can adjust and the results become clear. But you’ll always have a voice in your treatment.”

He gave her a small, reassuring smile.

“What you may feel, over time, is something like fog lifting. A clarity where uncertainty once lived. We’ll talk through every step of it, together.”

Shauna’s hands gripped the sides of the chair tighter.

Her heart thudded wildly in her chest.

She was terrified.

Terrified of losing Jackie.

Terrified of wanting to.

And yet—beneath all of that—there was a tiny part of her, quiet and buried deep, that wondered: *What would life be like without the confusion? Without the shift between delusion and truth?*

What if she really could have a future?

Their conversation continued with careful planning—Shauna’s daily routine, the structure of her therapy sessions, and how much supervision she’d be under. Dr. Whitmore made it clear: she’d never be pushed beyond what she was comfortable with. For now, she’d eat alone. No pressure to dive into group activities or sit in a circle of strangers and pretend trust came easy. They agreed that too much too soon could do more harm than good.

He even promised to help her reestablish contact with her mother. “She does care,” he’d said gently. “She’s just scared—just like you are.”

It was a conversation that offered something dangerously close to hope. Not delusion, not fantasy—just a sliver of something solid. A quiet, grounded kind of hope. Like maybe the world wasn’t entirely out to get her. Like maybe someone actually understood what it meant to carry something broken inside your chest and not flinch away from it.

For the first time in what felt like years, Shauna left a conversation not consumed by dread—but exhausted, and curious.

Curious about the days ahead.

Back in her room, Jackie didn’t show.

There was no whisper from the corner, no snarky joke from the edge of the bed, no chill wrapping itself around Shauna’s ribs.

Just stillness.

And instead of spiraling, Shauna did something else—something new.

She picked up a pen.

She wrote it down.

Her thoughts about the appointment, her fear of losing Jackie, the strange calm that came with this new routine. She addressed the entry directly: *To my dead best friend.*

As if the words would travel somewhere—up, out, into whatever version of the afterlife Jackie haunted. Like Jackie was still listening, waiting to hear from her. And somehow, this felt… healthier. Healthier than talking to empty air or waiting for a ghost to curl up beside her. Writing was quieter. Cleaner. A private sort of grief she could control.

It was a coping mechanism offered by Dr.Whitmore, adress the elephant in the room. Jackie was dead and she was encouraged to accept the reality, even if just on paper.

Her thoughts were just a little less dark than usual.

And over the next few weeks, they stayed that way.

Just like the doctor said.

She didn’t even realize Jackie hadn’t shown up again.

She was busy.

Her mornings were filled with running. Her mind softened by the mix of pills designed to keep her stable, a low hum of silence where once there had been chaos. She didn’t bond with anyone—not really. But that wasn’t new. Shauna had always needed a *certain someone* to pull her toward connection. And now… there was no one like that here.

And yet, she was okay.

Therapy sessions went longer. She talked more. Not everything, not the deepest parts—she wasn’t ready to dig that far. But she expressed enough. Enough to make the therapists nod. Enough to count. And what she couldn’t say aloud, she wrote. Page after page. Raw, scattered, sometimes angry. But real.

She directed most of it to Jackie.

But always with the same title: *To my dead best friend.*

She made sure not to blur the line. Not this time. Jackie wasn’t here. Jackie was gone. These were just pages in a journal now, not dialogues in a shared hallucination.

And that was okay.

People prayed to lost loved ones all the time. Visited graves. Talked to the sky or the air or a picture frame on the wall. She learned there were *healthy* ways to talk to Jackie.

Her sessions with Dr. Whitmore had changed over time. The guarded tension of those early conversations slowly melted into something steadier, something that almost resembled trust. Once she realized he wasn’t out to break her down or "fix" her into some polite, medicated shell of a girl, Shauna found herself opening up more than she expected.

They talked through the darker episodes—when her rage still slipped out, when someone got too close, when a nurse once tried to take Jackie’s necklace during a routine search and Shauna’s hand had flown, instinctively, to the woman’s throat.

It hadn’t been violence. It had been fear. And here… they had seen that. Not as a threat, but a symptom.

She wasn’t a monster in this place.

Sometimes fragile, often complicated—but not *broken*.

Even her past had reached them. Whispers of the wilderness. Faded newspaper clippings passed between staff, hushed exchanges over lunch breaks. *That’s the one who survived the crash.* *That’s the one who—*

They didn’t say the rest.

They didn’t need to.

More than a year had passed. A quiet, grey sort of year, dulled by routine and meds that padded her emotions like cotton around glass. Jackie hadn’t returned. Not once. Not in the mirror. Not in the shadows. Not during the worst of her triggers. It was like she had melted out of existence the moment the pills took hold.

The ache of that was private—buried.

But in Jackie’s absence, something else took root. A faint clarity. The guilt that had been muffled for so long began to surface. Her disconnection from everyone she’d ever known, the silence she’d accepted as normal… it felt heavier now. But reaching out still seemed impossible. What could she even say?

So she did what she could. She moved forward.

She joined group therapy. Still guarded, still quiet—but present. She participated in a few workshops. She even started running again—laps around the enclosed outdoor path, alone, fast, focused.

Then one afternoon, Dr. Whitmore offered something new.

“Miss Shipman,” he said with a small smile, folding his hands over his clipboard. “You’ve made impressive progress. The way you’ve adjusted to the medication, how infrequent the violent episodes have become—it’s nothing short of remarkable. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

Shauna didn’t know how to take praise like that. She still hated the idea that stopping herself from breaking down was some kind of achievement—like she should’ve been better all along. But still… she felt it. A small, strange flicker of pride in her chest. She nodded.

“We recently received a request,” Whitmore continued. “Our team has reviewed your status, and we believe you’re ready to have a visitor. Someone you may remember.”

Shauna’s eyes lifted slowly, skeptical.

*After all this time… who?*

“Who?” she asked aloud.

He flipped through a few papers, squinting behind his small glasses.

“One moment... ah, here it is. A request from someone named... Charlotte Matthews.”

Shauna blinked. “Lottie?”

It came out more to herself than to him.

“What does she want?”

“It just says a regular visit,” Whitmore replied calmly. “It’s entirely your choice. If you don’t feel ready, we can reschedule or decline. But we would keep the visit under supervision and support you closely during and afterward.”

Shauna nodded, but her face was a canvas of confusion.

“I thought…” she murmured, eyes drifting. “I thought she wasn’t allowed out again. Not after everything that happened. I haven’t seen her since…”

Her voice trailed off.

She could still remember Lottie’s expression as they were pulled out of the wilderness. The blank, echoing look in her eyes. And how her parents—so pristine and wealthy and *afraid*—had flown her off to Switzerland almost immediately.

Shauna hadn’t seen her since.

Not in person. Not in press.

And now... Lottie was coming *here*?

“Should we schedule the meeting, or would you rather decline?”

Dr. Whitmore’s voice was careful, gentle. “It’s entirely your choice. We believe you’re ready—but there’s no shame in waiting if you don’t feel that yet.”

Shauna shook her head slowly.

“No… I want to meet her,” she said, her voice quiet but sure. “I’d like to see how she’s doing. And maybe…” She paused, “Maybe it’s a good test. To see what I can handle.”

*Did he know?*

Did he know what the two of them had shared—beyond the crash, beyond the headlines?

If he did, he didn’t let it show.

Would he still believe she was ready if he knew he was reuniting two girls who once gnawed skin from bones? Who shared prayers to a strange, hungry *It* that may or may not have ever been real?

Probably not.

But the choice was Shauna’s. And she had made it.

So they arranged the meeting.

Lottie agreed—said yes without hesitation, the way Lottie always did when it came to facing darkness. She came flying over from Canada a few weeks later, and the institute set up a neutral room for their reunion. Bright light. Simple chairs. Clean walls. A therapist positioned quietly in the corner, unobtrusive but watchful.

Shauna sat at the table, her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the seat.

Waiting.

Her heart thundered in her chest, the seconds stretching long.

Would Lottie recognize her?

Would *she* recognize *Lottie*?

The last time they’d truly spoken—*really* spoken—was Lottie’s letter. The one that whispered of visions and fate, the wilderness that still hadn’t let go.

Was Lottie still holding on to it?

Still following the whispers in the trees?

Or worse—had she moved on?

Had she healed?

Was she here out of pity?

*Or revenge?*

Maybe this wasn’t a reunion.

Maybe it was judgment.

Shauna tried to swallow, but her throat was dry. Bitch was nervous.

And then—

The door handle turned.

She walked into the room like she belonged there.

Long, dark hair spilled over her shoulders—much longer than Shauna remembered. Taller too, or maybe just more *present*. There was something graceful about her, almost ethereal. Like an angel gliding through some broken stained-glass dream. Or maybe just someone expensive—delicate in posture, always calm. She is litteraely that kind of person that was so calm, that it was unsetteling.

That smile. It hadn’t changed.

Still slightly off-center, uneasy but kind. No lies behind it—just a quiet tension, as if the words forming behind her lips might turn out stranger than anyone expected. Her eyes… God, those eyes. Deep brown, used to be manic in a way that made people *believe*. Believe in visions, purpose, salvation—something bigger than the wreckage of their lives.

But now?

Now they were dimmer. Calmer. Like the static had faded.

They held a kind of blankness Shauna hadn’t seen before.

Still sharp, but empty. Less divine, more… dulled.

Lottie sat down across from her, escorted by a nurse who vanished without a word.

Shauna’s therapist stood too, clearly unprepared for this development, when the nurse told him to leave too. “We’ll leave you alone, as requested,” the nurse said quickly, and the therapist shot Shauna a glance—checking silently if she was okay with this.

Shauna nodded, though surprised.

Maybe it *was* better if no one else was here.

She didn’t know what this was going to be and how many secrets she didn’t want anyone else to hear apart from Lottie she shared them with.

“So… you’ve changed, huh?” Lottie’s smile widened.

She looked at Shauna like she was staring at a long-lost sister, and for a second, Shauna felt it too. Something warm—old and broken, but still alive between them.

“You have too,” Shauna replied.

Lottie chuckled. It was still *her*, but muted.

Shauna’s eyes flicked down to her own hands, resting in her lap. Fidgeting.

“They had you locked up too,” she said more quietly. “What happened? You run for it, or did they get tired of watching you twitch under their ‘care’?”

Lottie just smiled. “I wasn’t there much longer after you left,” she said. “I’ve been back for a while now.”

Shauna raised a brow. Maybe even unhappy, knowing Lottie was back so long already and didn’t contact her sooner. “Ah. Must’ve been fate then, huh?

A sign from the wilderness that we weren’t meant to meet? Did IT maybe made us not meet? Hopefully we don’t anger it with our meeting” She says sarcastically.

She said it with a dry smirk, teasing, a usual, Lottie was familiar with.

Was she still *in it*? Still seeing signs and symbols? Still tangled up in visions and prophecys? Or had the meds scrubbed all that clean?

Shauna wasn’t sure what answer she wanted.

Part of her was still holding onto the hope—however small, however cracked—that Jackie wasn’t just a chemical echo. That someone *else* might’ve seen something too. That maybe, just maybe, Lottie still had the key to make sense of it all.

Because the past few months had taught Shauna many things.

And one of them was this:

She could survive a lot of things.

But surviving *knowing Jackie wasn’t real*?

That might just break her.

Even though she made such good progress, the truth was, she was just lieing to herself, trying to adjust to what was expected and maybe trying to decive herself, so she wouldn’t feel the grief off Jackie’s loss at all.

Lottie met Shauna’s eyes with unnerving intensity. “I think we were meant to meet now. You and I—we’re still going to talk about everything else. But I came here for a reason.”

From her bag, she pulled out an envelope—decorated with an absurd amount of glittery cat and parrot stickers, and, unmistakably, a smudged lipstick kiss in the corner. There were even squiggly doodles and a rainbow smiley face drawn in what looked like gel pen. The whole thing looked more like a birthday card from a preteen than anything serious.

Shauna blinked at it. “What the fuck is *that*? Did some kid write you a love letter or something?”

Lottie chuckled softly. “Not quite a child, but I know what you mean. Misty’s always been... eccentric. But no, it’s a letter from her—to you. She made me promise to hand it over personally, or else I’d be stuck listening to her talk about her *new parrot* for hours. Just a heads up: you’ll hear all about it in the letter too.”

Shauna squinted at the envelope, not reaching for it. “Misty? What the *hell* does she want from me?”

“She misses you,” Lottie said gently. “Hard to believe, I know. But some people do care about you, Shauna. And Misty’s... well, she’s been happier lately. Especially since—”

She hesitated, with a barely suppressed smile. “Her and Nat.”

Shauna's face twisted in pure disbelief. “*Excuse me?*”

Lottie couldn’t help it—she smiled fully now. “Yeah.”

“*Excuse me?! What?!* Since *when?!* I thought Natalie was in rehab and Misty was probably torturing some poor soul at a rundown nursing home—or I don’t know, stealing babies from hospitals and giving them to women she personally deems ‘fit’ as mothers. That bitch is insane”

Lottie shook her head with a calm grace that only made Shauna more suspicious. “No. Misty’s doing really well. She and I both wanted to help Natalie after... everything. She needed someone. She was left all alone.”

Shauna cut her off. “*Wait*—you and Misty? Do you realize you’re talking about the two *psychos* who *dragged us* out of the wilderness? They stole everything from us. And now you *care* for her? That deranged stalker?! Lottie—have you *lost your fucking mind?!* Did they *break* you that badly?”

“Shauna, holding onto grudges like this isn’t healthy.” Lottie’s tone stayed maddeningly level. “I made a choice. And the bond I had with Natalie... it meant something. It *still* does. Helping her meant more to me than resentment. After I came back, it felt important—*right.*”

Shauna crossed her arms, barely containing her disgust. “You built a ‘great bond,’ huh. What does that *even* mean?”

Lottie stayed calm “It means what it sounds like.”

There was a pause.

And then—Shauna burst out laughing. Loud, unfiltered, a kind of cackling that shook her shoulders and left her grinning like a lunatic. “HAH—ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! *YOU?!* AND *MISTY?!* AND *NATALIE?* No. No fucking *way!* That is—*that’s the most messed up thing I’ve heard since we left that goddamn forest.*”

Lottie just smirked, letting her have it.

Shauna wiped a fake tear from her eye. “Wow. I mean—I feel sorry for Natalie. I really do. But if she *chose* Misty, I guess that’s on her. I just never thought *you’d* be part of a twisted little throuple or whatever the hell this is.”

“We have a great connection,” Lottie said simply. “It’s been healing. Natalie’s doing better. And Misty really does care for her. Deeply.”

“Oh, I *bet* she does,” Shauna muttered, rolling her eyes. “That girl is a *freak.* But hey—good luck, I guess. I mean, what else are you gonna do? Normal relationships are clearly overrated.”

“I enjoy it,” Lottie said softly. “They both helped me come back. I had to make a choice—either let people in, or be alone with myself, drowning in more money than I knew what to do with. They gave me purpose again. We’re helping others.”

She smiled faintly. “Misty’s not exactly a fan of the group stuff with the strangers but she loves the heliotrope colours we wear, of course. She has her own little greenhouse now—with parrots. It suits her.”

Then she added, gently, “But I don’t want to take away your fun reading her letter.”

Shauna didn’t look at the envelope.

“I couldn’t care less. You can keep it,” she muttered. “I don’t know what good it’d do to read it.”

“That’s your choice,” Lottie said calmly. “But keep it for now. You never know—you might need it. When it gets lonely.”

Shauna rolled her eyes but pocketed it halfheartadly. “So you came all this way to hand me that and tell me you’re poly now?”

Lottie laughed once, softly. “No,” she said, her voice lowering. “That’s not why I came.”

The lightness in her expression vanished, replaced by something more serious—too serious.

“I came because I have a message for you, Shauna. A very important one.”

Shauna narrowed her eyes, leaning back. “Okay. Spit it out.”

Lottie looked at her carefully. “Do you still see Jackie?”

The question knocked the air out of Shauna. She blinked, searching Lottie’s face—but there was no teasing there, no smirk. Just quiet intent. Something heavy.

“No,” she said, with a careful tone. The word came out like an exhale. “Why?”

“It’s the meds, isn’t it?” Lottie leaned in a little. “They’re giving you the same thing they gave me—before they forced it all out. Before the fog. You don’t get to choose what memories stay, Shauna. I can’t remember everything anymore. It’s like a blur. Misty and Nat had to remind me of most of it. But even then, it still feels… muted. I haven’t had a single vision since.”

Shauna looked away. Disappointment crept up her spine like a cold draft.

“So you think it too,” she murmured. “What we saw… was just our minds. Nothing was real. Just hallucinations? I always knew that was true. Natalie did too. We were just broken girls playing make-believe to survive. Jackie was right to never partake in those weird rituals, I didn’t believe in those either, see where they got us”

Lottie’s gaze sharpened.

“But it *isn’t* just our imagination.”

Shauna shots back. “Bullshit”

“It’s not, Shauna. I *know* you miss her. I know what it’s like to lose something that felt like part of your soul. It must be even harder for you… because *you* remember it all. Not fog, not fragments. You remember her. Everything. I know how you clung to her, how much you need Jackie.”

She leaned forward.

“The Shauna I knew wouldn’t be sitting here so calm. So still. They dulled you down, didn’t they? Scrubbed the edge off you. Smoothed you into something… compliant.”

Shauna looked down at her hands. They were still. She hadn’t clenched them into fists once this whole time.

“I’ve learned to deal with it,” she said. “She’s dead. And I’m not. That’s the end of it. I’ll never have her back.”

Lottie’s eyes didn’t waver.

“But what if you could?”

Shauna’s head pulled back. Her voice dropped, sharper now. “Lottie… don’t come to me with that crap. Don’t start that again.”

“What if she’s not entirely gone?” Lottie insisted, unshaken. “Her body, yes. We left it behind in that wreck. Well Natalie did. But I believe… she’s still *here*. Still reaching out to you.”

Shauna stood halfway from her seat, voice shaking now. “No. No, don’t do this. She is *gone*. You and I both know she’s in that fucking plane. A skeleton in the snow. Don’t come here and tell me she’s not.”

Lottie nodded solemnly. “She is dead. But not *gone*. Listen to me, Shauna—I had a vision.”

Shauna rolled her eyes.

She didn’t want to hear it.

*A vision out of the woods?* Now? What good would it do her here—where food came on trays and survival was no longer a daily task? What purpose could one of Lottie’s cryptic premonitions serve now, other than dragging her back, unraveling every inch of fragile progress she’d built through therapy and journaling? Even though she might be lieing to herself about that.

“Jesus Christ, Lottie, I’m not here for—”

“Just listen.”

Lottie’s voice was steady. Not a command—*a certainty.*

“You want to see her again. I know you do. You never talk about what happened out there… and it’s eating you alive.”

Shauna’s jaw clenched, but Lottie kept going.

“You’re good at pretending—maybe even to yourself. But look at you, Shauna. Really look. You’re tired. You’re thin. You look *sick* and *numb*. And no matter how much you want to believe you’ve moved on, I see it in your eyes. You haven’t.”

Lottie’s gaze softened, almost glancing away.

“She told me… you’re hungry for something else.”

The words dropped like stones in Shauna’s chest. Like a memory that is regurgitated.

“And I think she’s right. You *are*. And you need to admit it to yourself—before you disappear completely. I’m worried about you.”

Shauna’s eyes narrowed. Her body tensed.

She drew in a sharp breath, her jaw tightening as she instinctively held back the rising anger—not consciously, but out of habit and the dulling weight of medication. Before she could pull away, Lottie reached out and took her hand.

“Stop it. Stop repressing everything. We both know this numb, polite, distant version of you isn’t real.”

Shauna’s hand twitched. But she didn’t pull back.

“What does it matter, Lottie?” she said flatly. “There’s nothing I can do. We’re not in the wilderness anymore. We have to *accept* that we’ll never feel the same again.”

Lottie gave a faint smile—one full of reverence and something else.

“You’re still the Antler Queen to me, you know,” she whispered. “You always were. You always *will* be. And I’m going to help you remember.”

She stood, walked to the door, and knocked twice.

A nurse entered seconds later, carrying a silver tray. On it sat a plate. A thick slab of meat—raw, red, beautifully marbled. It glistened under the sterile light of the room. A smell hit Shauna instantly—rich, primal, intoxicating.

Because one thing Lottie could do, was use her money and influence, and if she wanted to bring Shauna a meal she deserved, than she would just do it. And nobody would bat an eye.

“Freshly hunted,” Lottie said softly. “It’s not the same as chasing it yourself… but it’s the freshest, rawest thing I could find for you.”

Shauna stared at it—skeptical, confused—but her stomach betrayed her, letting out a low, feral growl.

“I know it’s not *everything* you need,” Lottie continued. “But it’s a start. I want to give you something. Something that speaks to what’s still inside you.”

She sat again, watching Shauna carefully. Waiting.

For a moment, Shauna considered refusing—just to assert control, just to keep some boundary intact. But the hunger—*that old, familiar hunger*—was louder.

Her fingers twitched. She didn’t reach for cutlery. Fuck cutlery, who needs that.

She just grabbed the meat with her bare hands and tore into it.

Warm, soft, bloody.

She devoured it like she hadn’t eaten in days.

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

Shauna nodded, chewing slowly—like muscle memory. A picture of the *old* Shauna flashing in Lottie’s mind: wild-eyed, tearing into meat like it was her birthright to devour.

Lottie leaned back, watching her.

“Now let me tell you what I saw. While you enjoy.”

She closed her eyes for a second, remembering.

“I was with Nat. She was near. I could hear her voice… and then Jackie’s. Just a whisper—barely a breath. But it was urgent. A warning. A plea.”

Her voice dropped.

*“Get to Shauna. Get to her. Tell her.”*

Shauna froze. Her hand hovered mid-air.

“I didn’t know what she meant,” Lottie continued, “but I followed. I let her guide me. And I saw… something strange. A doll—lifeless, hanging from a leash in a dark room. Empty. Until she wasn’t. She shifted, changed. Became… Jackie. Or some version of her.”

Shauna’s breath hitched.

“I wanted to go to her. To pull her down. Free her. But I couldn’t. That wasn’t for me to do. And then you came.”

Lottie’s voice softened, but her stare never broke.

“You moved toward her so gently. Like she was sacred. You reached for the collar around her neck… and you were holding a knife. Than—without hesitation, you cut into her torso, covered yourself in her blood—smooth, precise. Your hands buried themselves inside her.”

Shauna slowly lowered the meat. She could see it. Could feel it, just how she remembered Jackie’s flesh between her fingers when she ate her.

*Lottie always had the ability to bring her visions to life.*

Lottie leaned in, calm and certain.

“You slid your fingers past her ribs. She didn’t scream. She just *watched* you. Eyes wide. Still. Like she was waiting for it. And then you pulled it out—her heart. Beating. Alive. In your hands.” Lottie watched Shauna pick the meat back up into her hands half in trance. “You looked up at her, silently asking… and she nodded. And you sank your teeth into it.”

Shauna could see it, Jackies beating heart in her hands. Biting into the flesh off the meat before her like it was the heart itself.

Lottie paused, voice threading into something awed, almost envious.

“You devoured it like it had always been yours. Like Jackie had always been yours to have. To consume. And she let you.”

Shauna’s lips parted—no sound.

“But she didn’t die,” Lottie added. “She stepped forward, freed. Someone had let her loose. She took your hands… and she did the same. She devoured your heart, but yours was hollow and black.”

The silence between them pulsed.

Lottie met Shauna’s eyes.

Shauna met hers.

Shauna let out a long, heavy breath—like her mind was struggling to digest more than just the rare, bloody meat still sitting uneasily in her stomach. Lottie’s words lingered, thick and suffocating, wrapping around her like smoke from a fire she hadn’t meant to start.

She had *almost* managed to live a version of her life outside of all this madness. But now, Lottie had poured it back into her, image after image—visions, truths, delusions—all packed into one smiling, calm-eyed warning.

“You’re fucking nuts, you know that?” Shauna finally muttered, with a rough voice.

“Yes,” she said simply. “Everyone sees it that way. Maybe even I do. But I also *believe* in this, Shauna. I believe it’s our destiny. And we can’t ignore destiny. I tried. But it doesn’t go away.”

She leaned forward slightly—earnest, trembling on the edge of desperate.

“You’re not done with her. Not with Jackie.”

Shauna froze. Her pulse ticked louder in her ears.

“You can’t erase what’s *part* of you,” Lottie continued. “What’s *in* you. Not forever. You and I both know the things we see… they’re real. I’ve seen so much—things that happened. Things that *will* happen. And so will you.”

She stared into Shauna’s eyes.

“I saw it. You—*in her arms.*”

Shauna scoffed bitterly. “Yeah, in *death,* maybe.”

“No,” Lottie said. “Not in death. *Not like that.* You have to trust me. *Trust yourself.* If you feel it—deep down—then believe it. She’s still with you. She’s *waiting.*”

Shauna looked away, jaw clenched. “Is that all? Because as much as I enjoyed the mystery meat and your little prophecy bedtime story, I think it’s time for you to go.”

Lottie didn’t move.

“I know you’re scared. But you can’t run from this. It’s already coming for you, Shauna. It always was.”

She stood, gathering her calm like a shawl.

“When you’re ready… call me. I’ll help you. You don’t have to do it alone.”

“Mhm. Sure,” Shauna said, sarcastic. “Thanks for the visit. I’ll light a candle for you or… whatever.”

Lottie only smiled. That quiet, *knowing* smile.

She didn’t need to say more.

Because she could already see it in Shauna’s face—the tiny shift, the twitch of fear behind her sarcasm.

She had planted a seed.

And she knew how that worked.

Whether Shauna *wanted* it or not, she would start looking for signs.

And signs… always came. Lottie was sure of it, leaving the room and Shauna behind with just her believe.

Chapter Text

Shauna looked. She *kept* looking—at first just when she was alone, then in fleeting glances around corners, under her breath at mirrors, whispering into dark hallways when no one else was awake. After Lottie’s visit, she couldn’t stop. She *wanted* to believe—just for a moment—that maybe it hadn’t all been in her head. That maybe Jackie had been real all along. That Lottie hadn’t just stirred up old ghosts for the sake of false comfort.

And if she *saw* something… if she *felt* something—that had to mean *something*, didn’t it?

But nothing happened.

Not that day.

Not the week after.

Not in the empty corners of her room.

Not in the humming silence of meditation class.

Just *nothing*.

Weeks passed. Then more. The quiet became structure.

Routine. Pills at dawn. Exercises. Journals. Recovery.

Or something that *looked* like recovery if you stared at it long enough.

Lottie’s words haunted her. Not like Jackie did—but like a mantra you couldn’t shake, scribbled over and over in her notebook, tight and precise like maybe—*maybe*—writing them out would make them real. Would make sense of them. Would make *Jackie* real again.

She thought about it sometimes. About what Lottie saw. About whether it was just another one of her old friend’s mystical *intuition*—an echo of who Shauna used to be, or a projection of who she thought Shauna wanted to become. Maybe Lottie simply understood her too well. Maybe she had planted the ghost right back into her heart, like a seed she *wanted* to bloom again.

Because Lottie was the *only one* who had ever seen Jackie as more than a dead girl frozen in time.

She had seen Jackie the way Shauna did—still present, still powerful.

But maybe she had just said what Shauna needed to hear. And maybe that *was* a lie, even if it came from a place of love.

Eventually, after months of waiting, Shauna stopped.

She let go of the idea that there’d be a sign.

She got out of bed one morning, just like any other, and told herself to move on. Told herself it would be easier if she did.

Out the door.

Same routine.

Running laps, alone with her thoughts.

Therapy sessions that dug too deep or not deep enough.

Group work where she smiled just enough not to be noticed too much.

The food was familiar now.

No more taste of bloody meat.

Just fog and starch, bland pastries and the omnipresent taste of sadness disguised as *peas*. So many goddamn peas.

Why were they so obsessed with peas?

It was ridiculous.

She hated them now.

DIY therapy. Meditation.

Anger management where she learned how to count to ten instead of throwing chairs.

Music therapy where she didn’t sing.

More sports, more sweat, less weight.

Her body stayed lean, but her hair grew longer—darker. Her smile dulled. Just enough to fade but not enough to raise red flags.

Her sleeves grew longer, hiding bruises or what every she secretly did, to calm the grief.

And when they asked to examine her—just a check-in, they said—she refused, said she needed her privacy, and they respected that.

She almost felt guilty for it.

For hiding it.

But some things—some *pieces* of herself—weren’t up for dissection.

Another day passed.

And another.

Typical days.

Typical pain.

Typical loneliness.

No flare, no fight. Just the dull hum of survival.

She drifted through the hallways like a ghost herself—brain-dead, empty-eyed, a fucking zombie wrapped in hospital grey. She didn’t wear the necklace anymore. It was locked in the box now, out of sight. Out of reach. No more chasing. Only missing.

Wishing she could be somewhere else.

Somewhere Jackie might be waiting.

Just a single thread of life between them. One little cut, and she could cross over.

But she didn’t chase it.

She wasn’t ready to throw herself off the knife’s edge.

Wasn’t ready to become the one doing the haunting.

She thought about what it would mean—if she died chasing Jackie and ended up stuck in someone else’s life, circling them like Jackie circled her. That cycle scared her more than death.

Then—

“Shauna.”

Nothing.

“Shauna.”

Still nothing.

No ghost. No vision. Just a distant ache.

“Shauna.”

*Whispers.*

Like threads unraveling in the corners of her sleep, tugging softly at the edges of her consciousness. Not enough to hold on to. Just enough to notice.

“SHAUNA!”

Her body jerked.

“What the fuck—?”

She sat bolt upright in bed, heart racing, eyes darting to the shadows. The room was still. Nothing moved.

No one there.

She groaned, dragging the blanket back over her head.

Just a dream. Or something like it.

“Good fucking night.”

But then again—

“Shauna…”

A whisper.

Too soft to ignore. Too close to be her own.

“Wake up, Shauna…”

She sat up sharply, voice raw.

“Alright! I’m up, goddamn it.”

Blanket tossed aside, feet hit the floor, and in one swift motion she was up—moving. She knew what this meant.

*Time to run.*

Time to *bleed it out*.

Headphones in.

Legs moving before she had a thought to stop them.

“Lady, hear me tonight

‘Cause my feeling is just so right…”

The song pulsed in her skull. Looping.

Lap after lap.

*Lady, hear me tonight…*

She didn’t feel the burn.

Didn’t feel her lungs.

Only the pounding rhythm and the voice calling, rising under the music.

“Lady…”

“Shauna…”

The voice distorted. Like static glitching through the song.

She stopped running.

Paused.

Stared at the building like it might hold an answer.

Walked inside.

Took a cold shower.

Let the water slap her skin, like it could wake her up, wash it out.

But it clung to her.

That voice.

She heard it for days. Not clearly. But today—

Today it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t a memory. It was *insistent*.

“Shaunaaaa…”

It slid into her ear like smoke. Crawled into her skin.

She shoved her finger into her ear, like she could scrape it out.

“Shauna. It’s time.”

“Shut up.”

She shout it too loud.

Too desperately.

Shit. Someone could have heard that. She shouldn’t be seen talking to herself.

She couldn’t even remember what the voice was supposed to sound like anymore. The tone was off, distorted. Too soft to recognize. Too loud to ignore.

All she knew was—it didn’t belong in her mind.

Maybe it was time to tell the doctor. Admit it.

That the fog was lifting, and what was waiting underneath wasn’t silence.

It was worse.

She needed more meds.

More numbness.

Anything to drown out the whispering thing that knew her name.

She made her way down the corridor. Every corner she turned, the voices got louder.

“Shauna.”

“Shauna, come on.”

“Shauna. *Fucking* look at me.”

“Shauna—find me.”

“Shut up—shut up—*shut up*.”

Her hands flew to her head, palms pressing hard over her ears.

It didn’t help.

The voices pierced through, sharp and rhythmic, like knives tapping on glass.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Breathed in.

Shook.

Breathed out.

She needed help. Counseling. Anything.

Her feet moved forward, unsteady but determined, leading her down to the lobby. Each step felt heavier than the last, like wading through syrup. Her spine buzzed with static.

She was unraveling.

The entrance came into view. The secretary desk. *Mary.*

She just needed an appointment.

Someone to *ground* her.

The voices were too much—needles of sound stabbing at her temples like splintered migraine spikes.

“Shauna. Shauna. Shauna.”

Mocking now.

Winding her name like a chant.

*“Stop it, please…”* she whispered. Pleaded.

But the lobby was empty.

No Mary. No staff. No patients. Just silence.

*Where the fuck was everyone?*

“Shauna,” a voice hissed—softer, slithering—from around the corner. The right wing.

She turned toward it.

Her body moved before she could think. She followed.

The hallway stretched quiet and sterile.

Her shoes squeaked softly with each step.

Then—she saw *someone*.

A slim figure, brown-haired, hunched slightly, sitting on a bench near the end of the corridor.

They clutched something in their hands—too far to see what.

Shauna slowed.

It was no one she recognized.

No staff badge. No familiar face.

Just… someone quiet. Still.

A new patient, maybe. Smaller frame than hers. Easy to overlook if you weren’t already fraying at the edges like Shauna was. There were no voices now. No proof this person had called to her.

Just stillness.

And her own racing pulse in her ears.

Suddenly, Shauna’s eyes met hers.

Or… almost.

The woman wasn’t looking directly at her—more like *through* her, the way people do when they’re watching but trying not to be seen. Her face was half-hidden behind a curtain of hair, her posture tight, guarded. Not closed off entirely, but careful. Her stare didn’t reveal intent—just a quiet waiting. Maybe she was expecting someone in particular. Maybe she was just *hoping* someone would come, anyone.

Shauna froze. Held her breath.

The voice in her head, was gone. For now. The silence rang like a bell.

She turned slightly, ready to leave, to find a nurse or someone responsible.

The peace wouldn’t last. It never did. Best to get out of the way before reality caught up.

But then—

“Sorry,” the woman called, her voice carrying an accent. Thick, but not unfamiliar. There was something in it—something almost *recognizable*, like the echo of a song you couldn’t name. “Do you have any idea where I can find someone from the staff? I’ve been waiting for a while… I think they might’ve forgotten me.”

Shauna paused.

The woman was clutching something—tight. A folder, maybe? It was hard to tell from across the room. But whatever it was, her grip spoke of shaking nerves.

Shauna didn’t catch all of it. The woman’s voice was too soft, swallowed by the quiet hum of the hallway.

“What?” Shauna stepped closer, just to hear the womand voice better.

The woman shifted slightly in her seat, sitting up a little straighter. Not much—just enough to speak louder, but the effort it cost her was visible.

“I said… I think I was forgotten,” she repeated. “Do you by any chance know where I can find a staff member? I don’t want to be rude, just walking around without permission.”

Her tone was cautious. Polite. Like someone still adjusting to the rules of a place she didn’t want to break.

Shauna stopped in her tracks.

That voice.

Familiar. Sharper now. A little louder. The strange British accent did little to disguise the undertone she recognized—something buried in memory, but too clear to ignore.

She tilted her head, almost amused.

*It almost sounds like… Jackie.*

Same rasp on the consonants. Same subtle lift in pitch at the end of certain words. A kind of accidental charm.

She chuckled under her breath.

What a *funny* coincidence.

The woman, still unaware of being studied, furrowed her brows—something Shauna couldn’t quite see from this distance. After a moment of awkward silence, the stranger spoke again, a little more pointed this time.

“It’s fine if you don’t,” she said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just wondering if anyone *actually* works here.”

There was an edge to it—mildly annoyed, but not at Shauna. Not sharp enough to sting. Just… there.

Shauna took another step forward, curiosity now tugging her like a string pulled taut. There was something about this woman that set her pulse ticking faster, like a déjà vu she couldn’t place. Something almost magnetic.

She was close enough now to take her in fully.

Not particularly tall. mousy brown hair, a little damp on her head, falling under her shoulders in loose waves. And the outfit—a painfully bland cardigan-skirt-blouse combo, screaming *I’m trying not to be seen* in every thread. A disguise of plainness.

But Shauna could see the shape beneath it. Toned. Controlled. Like a body hidden away to not be seen by who wasn’t permitted to.

*Hidden power in a librarian’s disguise.*

She smirked to herself.

Did this girl think no one would notice?

Because *Shauna* did.

She hadn’t realized how intensely she was staring—evaluating her like prey—until the silence grew heavy, nearly stifling. The woman shifted awkwardly, clearly unsettled by the scrutiny. Not out of fear but the unfamiliarity of being evaluated so thoroughly.

“Uh… hello?” she asked, voice a little higher now. Defensive.

Shauna blinked, pulled out of the moment by the sound.

And then it hit her again. That *feeling.*

*Familiar.*

The way she sat. The way her shoulders squared like she was constantly bracing for impact.

That voice.

That body.

That…

“Weird,” Shauna murmured, almost to herself.

“Huh?!” The woman’s posture snapped tighter. Irritation creeping in now as she lifted her head more fully, her eyes narrowing on Shauna. “What’s weird?”

Shauna froze.

It wasn’t just a startled pause—it was *paralysis*. The blood drained from her face so fast it left her visibly paler, like someone had punched the air out of her lungs and time with it. Her eyes locked on the woman ahead.

If you ever wanted to know what it looked like when someone *actually* saw a ghost—this was it.

Because that face…

It was hers.

Jackie’s.

Identical. *Fucking* identical.

Not just “family resemblance” or “same haircut” kind of similar. This was *full twin-level dopplegänger shit*. The same bright, wide-set big eyes—just a touch darker, but no less piercing. The same slightly upturned, mousy nose. The same full lips that held that infuriatingly perfect pout, even when pressed into a tight frown. The shape of her jaw, the tilt of her neck—

Shauna’s eyes flicked lower.

The body.

The body she’d *known*. The one that used to twist away in the dark, strong looking but not able to carry a bucket of water without acting like her arms were going to fall off.

*It couldn’t be.*

“...Jackie?”

The woman leaned back a little, her face tightening into a frown. “What?”

Shauna stepped forward, her eyes scanning every twitch of muscle, every wrinkle of her nose—*that nose*, scrunching just like Jackie’s when she was annoyed but trying to hide it.

“So it *was* you. All morning. You’re… back?” Her voice trembled between disbelief and hope. It felt like the only real thing in the hallway.

The woman’s confusion deepened. “I think you’re mistaking me for someone.”

Shauna scoffed, a crooked smile pulling at her lips. “Ha. Very funny.” Her voice turned sharp with sarcasm. “What’s this? You’re roleplaying now? Some random British nobody? Doesn’t really suit you.”

The woman stiffened. “Excuse me?!”

“Drop it. Come on, what *are* you doing here?”

“That’s none of your business.” Her tone was clipped, but her eyes lingered—drawn despite herself to the strange, intense energy radiating from Shauna.

Shauna wasn’t listening.

Her whole mind narrowed to the movements of the woman’s mouth, the subtle raise of her brow. She tracked it like she was watching a dream replay itself—but somehow it *felt different*. Sharper. *Realer.*

“Lottie was right,” she whispered. “You *are* back…”

And then she touched her.

Just the back of her hand—barely a graze—but it was enough to make Shauna *shiver*. Not the cold kind. The kind that starts in your stomach and pulls the breath from your chest.

Warmth.

Actual warmth.

She wasn’t like the other hallucinations. She had *skin*.

“What the fuck…” Shauna whispered, her voice a ghost of itself.

The woman twitched under her touch, stunned. Her breath caught when Shauna’s fingers traced higher, over her arm in a slow, trembling glide.

“Can you maybe… *not* touch me?” she said, soft but firm.

Shauna didn’t respond. Her gaze was locked on her—*in* her.

And the woman, despite everything screaming to herself silently, that she should pull away, didn’t move.

There was something terrifyingly *honest* in Shauna’s stare—like this wasn’t about recognition anymore. It was about *need*. About something buried deep inside her finally surfacing.

“Hello?” the woman asked again, her voice weaker now. “Can you… not?”

But her own body betrayed her. Goosebumps prickled along her arms, and her heart was pounding in her ears as Shauna’s eyes refused to break away.

The silence between them grew heavy—almost sacred. Time folded in on itself. The hallway, the world outside, disappeared.

And then Shauna finally spoke again.

Her voice cracked with sincerity. “Are you real?”

The woman’s eyes widened.

“Real?” she echoed. Her voice had a flicker of doubt now. “Of course I’m real…”

But even as she said it, something wavered behind her words. A thread of uncertainty—like for just a second, she wasn’t sure anymore.

“You’re so warm… you haven’t been warm since…”

Shauna’s voice trailed off into the thick air, her eyes clouded with memory.

The woman beside her flinched, uncomfortable. Something about the way Shauna was acting—it didn’t just confuse her, it *unnerved* her. She didn’t understand what was happening, but her gut told her something wasn’t right.

Still, she didn’t move.

Maybe it was shock. Maybe fear. Maybe something far stranger: an inexplicable pull she couldn’t name. Or an old habit that didn’t die down.

She glanced nervously down the hallway, hoping someone—*anyone*—might walk past. A nurse. A staff member. A witness. But the corridor was quiet. Still.

And Shauna… Shauna wasn’t letting go. Not physically—her touch was barely there—but emotionally. Her presence clung to her. There was something about those eyes, the way they cut through layers, made you feel *seen* in a way you didn’t ask for.

The woman told herself to get up. Move. Leave.

But she didn’t.

Shauna leaned in, slow and deliberate, closing the space between them as she sat down beside her—so close their knees nearly touched. The air felt charged, like before a storm.

“Do you have a heartbeat too?” Shauna asked softly, her voice steeped in wonder. Like a child discovering something fragile and sacred.

The woman stared at her, stunned. “That’s a joke, right?”

But then Shauna’s hand moved.

Right to her chest.

Her fingers rested gently above the sternum, and for a second—one breathless, suspended second—they lingered, just barely brushing against the soft curve of her breast. Just long enough to register.

“GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME! THIS IS FUCKING INAPPROPRIATE!”

The woman shot up, shoving Shauna’s hand away as if it burned her. Her voice rang out like a fire alarm in the quiet ward, thick with both fury and shame.

What rattled her most wasn’t just the touch—it was the part of her that *hadn’t* moved right away. That allowed it for a second. That *felt* something she didn’t want to name.

She didn’t apologize. Cuz she didn’t gave a fuck, she didn’t care for that womans feelings or outburst.

She looked stunned—but not by the womans anger.

By the truth.

“I felt it…” she whispered, more to herself than to the woman. “You’re alive… how is that possible?”

Her eyes were wide with disbelief, as though the whole world had just cracked at the seams.

She couldn’t deny it—the gentle thump of the heartbeat against her fingertips.

Shit.

Maybe it even matched *Jackie’s* heartbeat. The rhythm she used to fall asleep to.

Shauna stood abruptly, facing the woman head-on, breath catching.

“How did you come back to life Jackie? Was it Lottie? Or…” Her voice dropped, uncertain. “Am I dead? Just tell me. Please. Because this—this can’t be real.”

The woman had already begun to turn away, clearly planning to leave, but the question caught her. She paused, then turned back, her eyes burning.

“My name is *not* Jackie,” she snapped, fury bleeding into every word. “It’s *Rhiannon*. And I’m *sick* of you acting like I’m… I don’t even know *what* you think I am. But you’re ignoring me like I don’t exist—like I’m just a shadow of someone else. It’s messed up.”

She jabbed a finger toward Shauna’s chest.

“Who the hell touches someone like that without permission? Huh? I don’t care *what* your deal is, but maybe you’re the reason this place has a damn *restraints policy*. Don’t ever touch me again. You belong locked up in a rubber cell.”

Shauna scoffed, an amused grin tugging at her lips despite the tension.

“Damn. Came back feisty, huh? Got that sassy edge now?”

Rhiannon didn’t let Shauna’s reaction stop her anger, it fueled it instead. She stepped forward sharply, closing the distance. Her face was inches from Shauna’s, her voice low and seething.

“You better take me seriously. I don’t fuck around.” Rhiannon was intimadating as fuck, you would piss your pants if it was you standing infront of her.

Her eyes locked on Shauna’s with a chilling steadiness, flicking between them like she was trying to read her down to the bone. It was the kind of look that could turn most people’s blood cold.

But not Shauna’s.

She smiled wider.

There was something in Rhiannon’s fire—something electric.

Not threatening.

*Enticing.*

Rhiannon saw it too—the glint in Shauna’s eye—and something inside her cracked. She pulled back slightly, muttering under her breath as she straightened her blouse.

“You’re not worth it.”

She turned, clearly done with the encounter—but before she could leave, Shauna reached out and grabbed her wrist. Tight. Immediate.

Not letting her go.

Shauna’s fingers bit into Rhiannon’s arm.
“I won’t let you go, Jackie—not again. I’m not making that mistake twice. Why are you testing me?”

Rhiannon tried to wrench free, voice shaking but loud.
“I’M NOT JACKIE!!”

Shauna’s grip only tightened. Frustration flared across her face.
“Stop playing games with me. Don’t make me lose my mind—especially when you’re here, and I can feel you.” She dragged Rhiannon closer. “Just let me know you’re real.”

Her desperation was like a lifeline in a storm. Rhiannon, startled by Shauna’s intensity, braced herself. She wanted to shove Shauna away—wanted space—but couldn’t muster the strength. Instead, she felt Shauna’s hand slide into the nape of her neck, fingers threading through her hair. A shiver ran along her scalp—sharp, tingling—reminding her why she’d kept her hair long in the first place.

“Look… please—just let me go.” Rhiannon’s voice was soft, apologetic. She felt the desperation and felt bad for it, felt bad for Shauna.

Shauna pressed their foreheads together, eyes shining.
“Please don’t go. I’ll do better—I swear I’ll never lie to you again. I’m sorry for everything. I just want you back. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to be, right?”

Rhiannon’s heart thudded fast in her chest. There was pain in Shauna’s eyes that both surprised and unnerved her. She tried to pull away gently, but Shauna held firm, her touch steady.

Instead of pushing off, Rhiannon let out a breathless gasp as Shauna closed the last inch of space—and their lips met. Shauna’s kiss was urgent and raw: the release of years of longing, grief, and hope all tangled together.

Rhiannon froze for a heartbeat. The notebook she’d clung to the entire time slipped from her grasp and thudded to the ground. She was completely swept away by the intense emotions pouring from Shauna’s mouth—the subtle movement of her lips, the sensation of being kissed as if someone had loved her that deeply, even though she barely knew the woman before her.

And against all logic, she kissed Shauna back—not because she wanted to, but because that kiss was something beyond desire; it invigorated her. It compelled Rhiannon to surrender, to feel it as if it were meant just for her, if only for a moment. She tasted Shauna’s desperation. The act felt both impossible and inevitable, a spark illuminating a dark corner of her soul.

Shauna’s intensity—her longing for Jackie—was creeping into the kiss so deeply that Rhiannon felt it. Felt like *she* was the person Shauna believed her to be. But when Shauna leaned in just a little too much, deepening a kiss she never asked for, Rhiannon pulled back. She grabbed Shauna’s hand from her neck and pulled it down.

“This… is too much. Whatever this is.”

Shauna didn’t quite snap out of it. The way the lips felt—so familiar—but the breath was different, the taste was different. And most of all… she had been let in closer than Jackie ever allowed. Unless it was a corpse under her fingers, this had never happened. They never made it this far. Shauna had never been able to express her need or desire like this.

A Jackie that responded—not pulling away.

Well, she did… but she wanted something too.

“You did want it too, right? I could feel it… for a moment?”

Rhiannon shook her head. Stepping away just an inch. “No… not like this. Whoever you are. I don’t feel anything for you. I am not who you want me to be. And I will break this. This is not what I’m here for. I have a job to do. It’s better if I go find someone, and then we part ways.”

“Why are you doing this to me? Please explain why you play this push-pull thing with me, Jackie. A job to do? What exactly is it you need to do?”

Rhiannon reached down for her notebook—only to be met by Shauna’s growing frustration as she snatched it from her hand.

“What is this? Mocking me or something? A journal with shit to torment me with?”

Shauna flipped through it. Scribbled notes—words that made no sense to her out of context. Something about an interview, questions about the history of the building. Little side notes. Names scribbled across. Anger voiced in silent threats.

“What is this?”

Rhiannon took it back in an instant. “Work things. None of your business. Unless *you* have information about this damn place so I can finally leave and get this stupid article done.”

Rhiannon hated the intrusion—especially when Shauna read more than anyone should have.

Shauna’s expression turned even more frustrated.

“Nonsense. Work? Waste your time on fucking pretending? I swear, Jackie, if you don’t stop—”

Rhiannon exhaled sharply, eyes closed. Her hand twitched toward her head but stopped mid-air.

“Rhiannon. It’s *Rhiannon*.”

“No, it’s not. You’re Jackie. Fuck—did you lose your memory? Seriously, the only explanation is that you lost it. Hit your head somewhere hard? I don’t know how reincarnations work, or whatever you are, but fuck it—if I have to remind you who you are, and who *we* are, then I will. I won’t let you go, no matter who you think you are.”

Rhiannon grew more frustrated, clearly battling internally with how she should react to the crazy woman in front of her. Shauna wasn’t going to stop pressuring her—cornering her, stepping over her personal space—chasing after something she didn’t even understand. And Rhiannon knew better than to give in to an argument that could so quickly escalate into something physical.

She took another step back and breathed. Trying to snap back to her composed self.

She wouldn’t let herself indulge in this any further.

She knew better. Her past had taught her.

Shauna was a nuisance—an unwanted entity in her life. There was something darker in her eyes. Something Shauna couldn’t see, too focused on clinging to Jackie. *Her* Jackie. The one she believed stood before her now.

Rhiannon clung to the notebook—but not out of fear for Shauna. But more because she was afraid of what her hands might do if they didn’t have something to hold onto.

Shauna wanted to grab her again. Take her hand and lead her away. She needed time with her—alone. Unaware of just how little Rhiannon wanted that.

But in that moment, someone came.

Someone finally arrived to break it all apart.

A nurse.

She looked between the two of them. “Rhiannon Lewis?”

Rhiannon immediately turned to face her, relieved to see another face finally. “Yes, that’s me.”

Shauna stared at the nurse, confused—confused that she could *see* what she saw, could *hear* the name again. It was irritating. A ghost more people could see than her. Another shift in reality.

She moved between the nurse and Rhiannon as if the nurse wasn’t there.

But Rhiannon ignored her. She stepped aside, avoiding Shauna entirely.

“Can we start with the interview?” She was hoping she could brush it all off, pretend thisdidn’t all happened after she finished what she came for.

The nurse glanced at Shauna briefly, then returned her attention to Rhiannon.

“I’m sorry, Miss Lewis, but I’ve been advised to inform you that our facility will not be participating in any press interviews. The fact that our institution is closing down isn’t worth writing about—don’t you think? We’re sorry for the waste of your time, but there won’t be any conversations granted.”

Rhiannon’s face dropped—just for a flicker. There was deep frustration, but she masked it quickly.

“I’ve been promised that—” She didn’t want to give up so easily, but the nurse cut her off immediately.

“We know it’s unfortunate, but we have no statements for you. I’m sure you can find something about our history in the local library.”

The nurse smiled politely, brushing Rhiannon off with a simple, dismissive wave of her hand.

Shauna, a silent witness, stepped toward her and grabbed her arm again.

“What’s this about?”

Rhiannon shot her a glance—an intense flicker of hate that made Shauna freeze for a second—before she turned back to the nurse, who was already preparing to retreat and move on with her daily tasks.

Rhiannon wanted to push further, ask more, but the irritation of Shauna coming closer again made it impossible to focus, only fueling her growing frustration.

As the nurse turned, she noticed the way Shauna held onto Rhiannon, smiled—almost mockingly—as if amused by the tension between the two of them, unaware of what was truly going on.

“Oh, you know Miss Shipman?”

Rhiannon shook her head. Her tone was cold, laced with disgust.

“No.”

The *No* hit Shauna like a slap. Like Jackie herself had just rejected her existence—again.

And it made sense in her mind now. Jackie was punishing her.

She was playing with her, twisting her thoughts, making her feel what she had once put Jackie through.

Shauna let go of Rhiannon’s arm, her hands dropping uselessly to her sides. She stared at her blankly.

The nurse left eventually.

And Rhiannon was left with anger—an anger visible with her sharp eyes, that narrowed enough to be deadly for anyone on sight.

Shauna looked… defeated. Empty. Something inside her just seemed to have lost the will to move or think. She didn’t recognise what was going on before her. She looked broken.

Rhiannon took one look at her desolate expression and used the opportunity to leave, she was beyond done with her and wanted to be out of that place and away from all the disrespect she experienced.

She walked out of the facility without a word—

—leaving Shauna behind, stunned just a moment too long to register the slip-away.

Rhiannon vanished like a shadow, swift and unnoticed, back out into the world.

Another staff member appeared, after a few minutes of Shauna just standing in the hallway, maybe out of habit she didn’t chase after Rhiannon, something inside her new Jackie always comes back.

The staff member seemed to have been Mary, who has been approaching shauna slowly.

“Hello, dearly. You look a little lost. Is there something you need?”

She gently placed her hand on Shauna’s shoulder, offering calm. A movement that snapped Shauna out of her frozen state. Her eyes finally darted to the doorway, to where Rhiannon had disappeared.

Realising that this Jackie, this verion wasn’t a ghost, but real. And really slipping away out of her hands.

“W... wait,” she muttered to herself. Reaching out a hand in the direction, still unaware of her surroundings.

“What is it, dearly?” Mary asked softly, looking the way Shauna did but was puzzled by what Shauna was referring to.

But the moment the words left her mouth, Shauna was already gone—bolting out through the wooden doors, fast.

She scanned the front of the facility, frantically looking around for Rhiannon, scanning the fronyard and beyond until her eyes darte out the figure in the further back passed the parkinglot.

Rhiannon was standing at the bus stop, not looking up to meet Shaunas eyes, she seemed more in thought, clutching her notebook tightly. And as a Bus arrived in that moment, within seconds, she stepped onto the bus.

Shauna sprinted toward her, breath catching, just barely too late, across the street. She could only watch how Rhiannon emerges and took a seat in the far back of the bus.

Maybe—maybe she saw Shauna too.

And then the doors closed.

The engine revved. The wheels turned. And the Bus started to leave, with Rhiannon blankly starring ahead, not acknowledging Shauna one last time but rather ignore her purposely.

“JACKIE, COME BACK!” Shauna screamed after her, desperation ripping through her chest. But Rhiannon didn’t turn toward her even then.

Shauna chased the bus, her feet pounding the pavement—

—but it picked up speed, rolling away,

—until it disappeared completely into nothing.

To a destination unknown.

Shauna wanted to fall to her knees and cry, to give up then and there. “Why?! Please…. come back”

Shauna looked toward the direction Rhiannon dissappeared to.

But she wasn’t going to come back. In Shauna’s desperation, it wasn’t Rhiannon who returned—but someone else. Someone she hadn’t seen in so long, yet came back like she’d never left. Someone she thought was lost to medication and ignorance.

A Jackie so different—no longer satisfying enough for Shauna to care about more than the Jackie who had just left.

Arms crossed, standing next to the bus stop.

“What are you doing, Shauna? Get up and go after her.”

Jackie’s expression was one of disbelief, paired with an unnerving calmness.

“But…” Shauna muttered, walking slowly toward her.

“No. Don’t focus on me—focus on her. What are you doing? Trying to get yourself run over in the street just because she left? Come on.”

She scoffed, tapping her foot impatiently on the pavement.

“Look, I get it. If you feel like you want to kill yourself—I’ve been there too.

You should know. Since, you were the one who basically pushed me into it, right?”

Jackie’s words cut sharp.

“But you have a chance here. Why let it pass?”

Shauna stepped closer, but Jackie stepped back.

“I’m not *her*, Shauna. You know why I’m here. Now listen.

You have her name.

Her bus number is burned into your memory.

And you *know* this bus only drives to one destination. One small town.

I’m sure you can find her.”

“…Are you sure?”

Jackie rolled her eyes.

“If *I’m* sure? I’m as sure as *you* are.

But hey—if you want to waste this opportunity, go ahead.

Stay here.

Miss me.

Lull yourself to sleep every night with my image in your head.

Or—find her.

And get *something*. Whatever it is.

You could do better with her, right?”

Jackie’s expression shifted—serious, dark.

“You could make up for what you did to *me*.

How you betrayed me.

How you left me to die.

How you *ate me*, Shauna. You *ate me*.

And you dumped me out—and now I’m everyone else’s shit.

Some soil on the ground. Bones left in a broken-down airplane.

You owe me.

Go. Find her. And do better.”

Jackie stayed at distance from Shauna, just enough to not be close.

“Easy steps:

-discard yourself.

-get your shit.

-and follow her.

Do it right.

We don’t want anyone coming to *look* for you, right?

One day and you could be back with her.

What do you have to lose, hmm?

It’s not like anyone cares about you, really.

The people in there just want to sell their meds and earn their money.

Your mom hates you.

Lottie’s just as insane as always.

You want to kill yourself.

Nobody *cares*.”

Her words burned into Shauna like acid.

But she nodded.

She agreed.

Jackie gave one last look.

“Good. Remember. I’m all you have left now. Don’t waste this chance.

Nobody gets a second chance like this, Shauna.”

And just like that, Jackie vanished.

Shauna finally gave in—collapsed to her knees, sobbing.

By the time the staff members caught up with her, she couldn’t stand.

“Miss Shipman, you shouldn’t be out here.”

She cried in their arms, unable to move alone, and was brought back inside to her room safely.

But she kept crying for the rest of the afternoon, until there were no more tears left to shed.

And when she stopped…

She was left only with determination.

She was already beginning to pack her things. Spend a long night organising things for the leave.

The next day, she met up with Dr. Whitmore. She entered his office with just one thought: *Leave fast and go after her.*

“Mrs. Shipman, you wanted to see me urgently—what is the matter?”

“I want to discharge myself.”

Dr. Whitmore looked surprised. “Discharge? That’s sudden. Is there a particular reason? We haven’t talked about that before.”

Shauna just breathed impatiently, like she couldn’t handle staying in the room—or the facility—any longer.

“Do I need a reason? I am beyond old enough to make that decision. And I’ve been working well with this institute—you said it yourself. I am stable enough.”

“Mrs. Shipman, we can’t just let you go if we’re not one hundred percent sure you’re stable enough to. These things take evaluations and tests to determine how fit you are to leave.”

Shauna’s frustration grew.

“If you won’t discharge me, I’ll make sure I get discharged, Dr. Whitmore.”

Her tone was sharp—threatening.

“Mrs. Shipman, where does this frustration come from, has something…”

She cut him off.

“Can we make a quick phone call, please?”

Dr. Whitmore looked confused but took out his phone and placed it between them.

“Sure. Go ahead.”

Shauna wasted no time and dialed a number. She looked at him with her determination still high.

Than someone picked up—

“Hi. Remember what you told me about… you-know-who?

Yes, exactly.

Yes. Yes, you were right.

Yes, she’s back.

Yep. Fully back… mhm.

No, I won’t say it again. *She scoffed*

Lottie—Lottie, come on…

Ugh, fine… *She rolled her eyes*

You were right… *there was a pause*

Anyways

So, basically, I need you to discharge me.

Yes.

Because she left, and I need to—exactly.

It’s… complicated.

Yeah, just talk to my therapist, please.

Uh-huh… thanks.”

After a while of talking back and forth—what clearly seemed to be Lottie on the other end—she passed the phone to Dr. Whitmore.

Dr. Whitmore tried to reason with Lottie about Shauna’s state of mind—that she needed to be tested and supervised. Intensive medication plans were drawn up, connections and calls were made with people who could look after Shauna. But somehow, Lottie managed to convince him to oblige.

She threatened to sue, and since the facility was already on the verge of being shut down, he didn’t put up much of a fight.

After a few minutes of tense discussion, he hung up. His face was tight with frustration, clearly unhappy with the outcome. He knew this was the wrong decision. Shauna wasn’t just at risk of undoing all her progress—she was also a potential threat to others if she didn’t at least continue her medication.

“Miss Shipman… whatever it is that’s so urgent for you to leave this facility… is it really worth the destruction it will bring to your mental health?”

Shauna leaned back for a moment. She could tell he truly cared—but he didn’t know the truth.

She wasn’t getting better.

She was miserable behind the facade of wellness.

She had been missing a piece of herself the entire time she’d been here.

And that piece was walking around somewhere, waiting to reunite with her.

“Trust me. I know what’s best for me. I’ll be fine.”

She knew she was lying.

But she didn’t care.

If whatever came next destroyed her completely, so be it.

She had been chasing ghosts for so long now.

She was done *chasing*.

Now, she would *find*.

“Thank you for everything, Doctor. You truly are the first and only person who actually cares about the people here—and does a decent job at it. I wish I could’ve been healed here. But this place… it was never my end station. I know that now.”

“It was never meant to be, Mrs. Shipman.”

She exhaled deeply, wanting to end the conversation quickly.

“I know. What I mean is… it doesn’t matter. I have to go. I have to do this. Please don’t take it personally. I just have to leave.”

“What about your mother? Does she know?”

“No. And I’d prefer it stay that way.

Check in her money or whatever if you want. Or say I died. I really don’t care.

Just leave her out of it. I don’t want to have to deal with her.”

Dr. Whitmore shook his head.

“We can’t do that. That’s illegal.”

Shauna sighed, frustration mounting. She placed her hand on the desk and leaned forward.

“Fine. Just… wait until you inform her, alright? That’s all I’m asking. Wait as long as you can. I’ll deal with her then. I just need time.”

Dr. Whitmore nodded slowly.

“Okay. We can do that. It’s your choice.

But please—look after yourself, Shauna.

I think a bright and strong woman like you deserves better than chasing after something that might break everything you’ve built for yourself.”

Shauna grinned. She didn’t agree.

“Sure. Everything I’ve built,” she said sarcastically—

—and stood up from her chair.

“Thanks for everything, but I have to leave now. Got a bus to catch.”

Shauna turned toward the door, leaving just enough time to hear Dr. Whitmore call after her,
“And please—take your meds, Mrs. Shipman.”

He held up the prescription slip. She snatched it from him without looking, shoving it deep into her jacket pocket like it was nothing but trash.

Just outside the door, her bag sat where she’d left it. She hadn’t packed everything—only what she could carry. The rest didn’t matter.

She stepped out into the lobby. Through the side window, she caught sight of Mary. Shauna paused only briefly, offering her a small, appreciative nod. Mary, the only truly kind soul in that building. The only warmth in a place that had otherwise been cold, clinical, and empty.

And she’d been a damn good baker.

Her cookies and cakes, handed out quietly with the evening meals, had sometimes been the only thing Shauna could stomach on the worst days.

Mary gave her a confused look through the glass, noticing the bag slung over her shoulder—but there wasn’t time to catch her.

Shauna pushed through the front doors without hesitation and walked straight toward the bus station.

She knew the direction. One town. One small destination.

It couldn’t be that big.

A tiny paper in a smaller town—the local gazette. That’s where Rhiannon had worked, at least according to what Shauna had coaxed out of the same nurse that broke into the conversation between her and Rhiannon, she had to restrain herself from beating her up for the interruption to get the information she wanted. She’d disguised her curiosity as harmless interest, feigned casual conversation, and managed to get just enough: a name, a town, even a vague address she could figure out somehow.

She waited for the next bus and climbed aboard, settling into the far back seat—just like Rhiannon had done. As if mimicking her would somehow bridge the gap between them, like it could forge a connection only Shauna could feel. She imagined what it would be like to see her again. This time, she had time to prepare—to think about what she might say, what she’d have to say to gain Rhiannon’s trust. To get closer.

She just wanted more time with her. Time to figure out what was going on. Would she need to help her remember who she truly was? Or was something else happening—something she hadn’t yet understood—that made this doppelgänger so real, so identical, yet so different?

Like Jackie’s ghost had possessed a stranger, maybe. At this point, nothing felt impossible. Jackie could still just be dead, and this... this was something else.

But she wanted to see her again so badly. To kiss her again.

She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that kiss—the one that shouldn’t have happened. She shouldn’t have forced it. But how else could she have handled the feelings that overwhelmed her so violently?

And yet… she craved to do it again.

The wheels of the bus turned steadily beneath her, the low vibrations unfamiliar and grounding. It felt like a ride toward destiny—toward the one person who somehow kept her tethered to this plane of existence.

She needed her. No matter the cost.

After a long drive, she finally reached her destination: a bus stop on a quiet street in an unfamiliar town. The illusion that finding Rhiannon would be easy vanished the second she stepped off the bus and saw how small she was compared to everything around her.

She turned in place, trying to orient herself. None of the street names rang any bells.

Spinning around, her gaze landed on a giant billboard behind the stop:

**“We’re Hot Property.”**

She scrunched her nose. “What a joke of an advertisement,” she muttered.

Shaking it off, she focused on her surroundings again and noticed a faded map posted on the bus stop wall. She stepped closer, scanning for any street name that might lead her to the only person that mattered.

She found one that had the same street name she’d been told—the one where the Gazette was meant to be—and immediately tried to memorize the path. She had no issue walking the way; she had written it down in one of her journals to make sure she wouldn’t get lost in case she forgot. It was already late in the evening, and she knew she might arrive too late to catch Rhiannon today, but she was okay with waiting all night if she had to.

On her way there, she took in the town’s so-called “charm”—though to her, it had none. It was even more boring than her own hometown. England really wasn’t her style—too quiet, too grim. Then again, a perfect place to chase after hell.

She walked on, ignoring passersby. Most of them were just old folks or random people trying to get to their destinations with as little contact as possible, just like her. It took her a good hour to find the street she was looking for. Every house looked the same, and it was difficult to even find street names. She wasn’t happy about being lost in a maze of bland buildings. But finally, she could breathe—she found it.

She checked the buildings, trying to figure out which one led to the office of the Gazette. Her heart began to race at the prospect of maybe seeing her again, now that she was walking down a street Rhiannon definitely walked by almost daily. She could see it behind her inner eye—how Rhiannon walked this very street, unaware of who she truly was, but with the same swing in her hips, the same pacing in her steps. It made Shauna’s head dizzy.

She composed herself, forcing her expression to stay blank, though it was exciting—almost thrilling. And yet, the coldness of her "No" still rang inside Shauna’s head, cooling down the rush of excitement.

Then she found it—a sign clearly stating *“Carnsham Gazette.”*

What a dumbass name. Fucking Brits and their weird-ass names for everything.

Shauna sighed, trying to ignore how this just added to the ridiculousness of the situation.

She tried the door to the building, but as expected, it was locked.

Not like Rhiannon would just coincidentally be waiting behind a closed door.

She was probably already at home… waiting for Shauna.

At least, that’s how Shauna imagined it.

She knew it was just a matter of time.

She wasn’t sure if she should find a hotel for the night, but the idea bothered her—what if she missed the chance to see her again, just because she left the one spot she was sure Rhiannon would return to eventually?

One cold, sleepless night wouldn’t make a difference anymore.

She knew how to sleep on cold floors anyway.

Shauna sat down beside the door, the night creeping in, and opened her journal.

She wrote.

What she could say.

What she wanted Rhiannon to remember.

What she should be honest about—even if it might scare her away.

If this Jackie truly didn’t remember, it could shock her.

But still, she wanted to be honest.

Or… maybe not.

She wasn’t sure what the right thing was.

If she could start fresh…

Why not start with a blank page?

A new chance to do it right.

Like Jackie said.

Start over. With someone called Rhiannon?

Rhiannon. What a name.

She had something behind her eyes.

Something Shauna recognized but couldn’t quite pin down—

Something that made her heart race.

That defiance, that sharpness.

Jackie wasn’t like that.

Rhiannon was quiet. Calculating. Dangerous.

That’s what separated them.

But she knew, deep down—

Even Rhiannon would falter eventually.

They all had.

Shauna shook her head.

The thoughts she had sometimes scared even herself.

Focused on her writing, she didn’t even realize it had started to rain.

Not until it got worse.

She really should look for shelter, or something to wait under until the storm passed.

She moved, trying to find a spot not too far from the office. She saw a roofing under a nearby house—wide enough to sit under—but as she turned, her eyes caught a figure standing in the distance. A familiar silhouette, soaked in rain but unmistakably the person she had been looking for.

She couldn’t help but move toward her, but the figure started walking on her own.

“Wait!” Shauna called after her, but whether the rain was too loud or she was too quiet, the person just kept walking ahead—quicker than Shauna, which wasn’t typical.

Shauna picked up the pace, especially once she lost sight of her around a corner. She turned the bend and saw her again, further ahead.

“Jackie? Rhiannon? I don’t know…” she murmured, growing quiet. Who was she even calling out for?

She walked faster.

“Please, wait for me. I just want to talk!”

The other person quickened their pace too.

Shauna grunted, muttering under her breath. “Come on, why is she walking away from me?”
But she knew.

Maybe she shouldn’t be chasing her. She probably looked like some weird-ass stalker right now, following her through alleys and dark corners.

“Oh god, I really am turning into a complete creep.”

She stood still, contemplating whether she should continue.

But then the figure ahead stopped too—turned toward her—and raised a hand, waving Shauna toward her.

“Huh?!” Shauna blinked, confused. But her feet moved anyway.

The woman resumed walking, and Shauna followed. The rain soaked them both, but she didn’t care—kept her bag securely over her shoulder and trailed behind.

It went on for a while, until she was led into a more secluded street. It was small, quiet, and the sound of rain hitting water echoed around her—maybe a river nearby.

She saw the figure pause again, just before a small bridge.

“Are we done with the following thing now?” Shauna called. “What are you leading me here for?”

The person turned. Smiled. Even soaking wet, it was unmistakably Jackie.
Not her double.
Her.

“Jackie, come talk to me. Is there something you want? What am I doing here?”

Jackie only smiled wider, slowly moving backward across the bridge. The rain hit the water beneath with a steady roar, a small canal running through it, making every other sound blur beneath the downpour. Shauna stepped forward, soaked to the skin, each movement dragging more water into her clothes. She couldn’t stay out like this for long. Still, she kept going, mirroring Jackie’s pace.

“Jackie, talk to me.”

But just as she stepped onto the bridge, she heard it—close now, carried by the wind and water.

“Do you see me now!!”

The words echoed out the moment Jackie took one more step back—and vanished. In her place stood someone else. A man collapsed onto the ground, and above him, a woman loomed. And then—she lunged.

Shauna froze, eyes wide. The woman began stabbing the man—over and over. Shauna couldn’t process what she was seeing. Couldn’t register *who* she was seeing. All she could do was stare.

But Jackie had led her here. That had to mean something.

And—god help her—Shauna could feel it in her chest. A flicker. Something ugly. *Excitement.*

The voice rang again in her mind. “Do you see me now?” The words were raw. Ferocious. A challenge and a cry at once. There was power in them. Hunger.

Shauna *knew* that hunger.

This wasn’t a kill for money. Not a robbery. Not a mistake. This was someone *releasing* something. Rage, yes—but something deeper too. Something primal.

She was still moving, though she didn’t remember deciding to. Her feet were carrying her closer. Drawn in like gravity.

And when she got close enough—she saw the smile. The same unhinged, giddy thrill she'd once seen in her own reflection. A woman in a raincoat, soaked in blood and splattered, blade sinking into the flesh over and over with a wet, sloshing sound Shauna remembered *too well.*

She stood still. Watching. Letting the sharp noise of the blade piercing through lull her into comfort for a moment until the woman stopped.

Shauna didn’t know what to do—only that she *wanted* to see more. She was drawn to it. Why had Jackie led her here? What did this mean? What was she meant to witness?

She stepped closer.

That was when the woman noticed her.

In an instant, she rose from the body, movements sharp and fluid. The raincoat still obscured her face, but there was no hiding her entirely. Shauna *knew* her.

“You,” the voice called out—bright, unbothered, recognising*.* The smile hadn’t left her face. “You’re on my list too.”

The woman stepped forward, knife still gripped tightly, moving with a calm and dangerous ease.

Shauna instinctively backed up, but only slightly.

And then the woman was *there*, face finally coming into view.

Shauna’s breath hitched. Her voice barely a whisper.

“Rhiannon…?”

Too late.

The knife swung fast—*too* fast to stop. Even though she hesitated, even though something in her paused, the blade still hit its mark. The sound of it slicing into flesh was *loud*, even over the downpour.

Shauna gasped, hands flying to her stomach, blood already blooming beneath her jacket. She dropped to her knees, the world around her turning foggy and cold.

Above her, through the blur, she saw the one face she could never forget. The face of her obsession. Her guilt. Her grief.

“I’m sorry,” Shauna murmured.

And then her vision went dark.