Blame my Shadow

Someone is Using Me

But the fear curling inside my ribs is louder than my conscience. If she knows, she will follow me. If she follows me and I black out, I might lead death directly to her.

I leave while she is in the shower. I leave a note that lies poorly about needing air. I turn my phone to silent.

And the whole time my skin keeps crawling like someone is watching me pack.

The storage complex looks abandoned from the outside. Rusted gates. Cracked asphalt. The kind of place where nothing good happens after dark and nothing clean survives the daylight.

The moment I step inside, I feel it.

That familiar pressure behind my eyes. Not a full blackout. Just the warning tremor.

I move faster.

The unit number matches the signal exactly.

The lock is brand new.

That alone is confirmation.

I break it.

The door slides up with a scream of metal on metal.

Inside is not a hideout.

It is a shrine.

A chair faces a folding table. A laptop hums softly, still on. The walls are covered in photographs.

Of me.

Leaving my apartment. Entering the police station. Sitting beside Sarah at a café. Standing at the mirror in my own bathroom.

Some of the photographs were taken during times I have no memory of living.

My legs weaken. My stomach turns violently.

I step closer.

There are timestamps printed on the backs.

Blackout times.

Every single unknown stretch of my life mapped and documented like a science experiment.

That's when I finally understand.

I'm not being framed as a killer.

I'm being positioned as an excuse.

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

Unknown number.

I ignore it.

It vibrates again.

Voicemail received.

My throat tightens as I press play.

My own voice fills the small unit, distorted slightly by compression, but unmistakably mine. Breathing hard. Shaking.

"I—I didn't mean to hurt her. She moved. I blacked out. I swear I was somewhere else—please—I swear—"

The audio cuts abruptly.

The timestamp lights up on my screen.

Last night.

Eleven forty-seven p.m.

The exact minute the latest victim died.

A location tag appears beneath it.

The murder scene.

My vision blurs.

That's impossible.

I wasn't there.

I was with Sarah.

Wasn't I?

I stumble out of the storage unit and call her. Straight to voicemail. I try again. Again. No answer.