Blame my Shadow

The Voice that Stayed

I wake up on the floor.

My cheek is pressed against cold tile, my mouth tasting like blood and dust. For a moment I don't know where I am. The ceiling above me looks unfamiliar, warped, like I'm seeing it through water. My body feels hollow, emptied out by whatever storm tore through me last night.

Then it comes back.

The files.
The mirror.
The smile.
Sarah.

My chest tightens painfully, like something inside me is collapsing inward. I push myself upright, my hands shaking so badly I have to brace them against the wall. Every muscle in my body aches, as if I've been fighting for hours.

I did it.

The thought doesn't explode this time. It doesn't send me spiraling. It just... settles.

I did it.

The words feel heavy, final, like a door closing behind me. I don't argue with them. I don't scream or deny or break anything. I just sit there, breathing shallowly, letting the truth rest in my chest like a weight I've been carrying my whole life without realizing it.

"I'm the killer," I whisper.

The house doesn't react. No voices. No hallucinations. Just silence.

Something inside me loosens.

This is clarity, I think. This is what it feels like when the fog finally lifts.

I stand up slowly and walk to the sink. My reflection looks... tired. Older. My eyes are sunken, rimmed red. There's dried blood on my knuckles. I wash my hands carefully, methodically, like I'm performing a ritual. The water runs clear.

I know what I have to do.

I dry my hands, walk back into the bedroom, and start changing clothes. Simple ones. Neutral. The kind of outfit that doesn't draw attention. My movements are calm, deliberate. This is it. No more running. No more guessing. No more dragging innocent people into my chaos.

Sarah deserved better.

The thought slices through me, sharp and clean. I sit on the edge of the bed and let my head fall into my hands.

"I'm sorry," I murmur to the empty room. "I should've listened. I should've trusted you."

The grief hits me in waves now, quieter but deeper. Her absence feels like a missing limb—something I keep reaching for instinctively, only to be met with nothing. I imagine her sitting at the desk, reading case files, her brow furrowed in concentration. I imagine her laugh. Her hands.

I killed the only person who tried to save me.

That's when I hear it.

Not loud. Not sudden.

Just... there.

"Save you?"

My spine stiffens.

The voice is mine. I recognize it immediately. Same tone. Same cadence. But twisted. Like my voice has been dragged through something filthy and came out smiling.

I don't turn around.

"I'm going to the police," I say quietly. "It's over."

There's a soft, amused exhale in my head.

"Is it?"

My jaw tightens. "I remember everything now."

"No," the voice says gently. "You remember what they want you to remember."