Noah and Tamara hadn’t at all noticed Mary’s interaction with the glowing red object hidden inside the empty wardrobe. They did not pick up on the clattering sound it made when it slipped from her numb grasp; they did not notice the way Mary’s body jolted into awareness as if she had just woken up from a dream, the glassiness layered over her eyes melting away so that fear and anxiety could filter back into the crystalized blue of her irises.
Suddenly Mary had no idea why she was standing in front of a wardrobe, or why her entire arm bared a prickling pain, as if it were numb with disuse. She didn’t question it, either—right now she had bigger things to worry about, like the fact that when she whipped around to the glorious window she had been heading towards, she quickly managed to determine three things:
First, she noticed that Noah was speaking words in Latin, the twitch of his lips and curl of his tongue working expertly pronounce the ancient language smoothly and easily, as if it were native to him.
“…in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, et in noimine Jesu Christi Filii ejus,” he said, his voice shaky yet powerful, “domini et Judicis nostri, et in virtute Spiritus Sancti, ut descedas ab hoc plasmate Dei…”
Second, she saw that Tamara was beside him, a black silhouette with a gleaming head of red hair as she stood beneath the glow of the lights outside the window. She was chanting familiar verses from the Bible while a hand struggled with something behind her—the window’s lock. The murderer’s ghost had locked the window, just as it had locked the door to the master bedroom when they first walked in.
“…most glorious Prince of the Heavenly Armies,
Saint Michael the Archangel…”
Mary then realized why nobody had bothered to ask her why she was simply standing there like an idiot beside an unimportant piece of furniture. It was because their attention was entirely focused on a large, roiling cloud of black mist that occupied the center of the room. It had a pair of narrow, glowing red eyes that shone like two stones of ruby buried in pitch black dirt. It seemed to be facing in the direction of the window, where Noah and Tamara stood with wide, frantic eyes, clearly attempting to ward it away. They weren’t doing a very good job at it; the foggy, shapeless figure would jerk backwards as if stung before advancing towards them again. Tamara held a cross in her hand, extended out towards it.
“…defend us in our battle against principalities and powers…”
“…quod Dominus noster ad templum sanctum suum vocare dignatus est, ut fiat templum Dei vivi, et Spiritus Sanctus habitet in eo…”
Mary’s breath got caught in her throat at the horrifying sight. She attempted to run to their side to help but found that her limbs were not complying with her wishes, instead stubbornly insisting that she remain in her place. Her leg muscles went numb like her right arm, threatening to give way beneath her weight. The spirit of the angry murderer was gone, replaced by something more sinister. She hadn’t ever seen a demon before, but Mary knew beyond a shred of doubt that that was exactly what they were dealing with. It would explain why the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up, and why she felt sick to her stomach—the sinister aura dominating the atmosphere was nauseating. This was what Mary and her friends had always feared would happen one day. This was their worst nightmare come to life.
“…against the rulers of this world of darkness,
against the spirits of wickedness in the high places…"
“…Per eumdem Christum Dominum nostrum, qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos, et saeculum per ignem…”
What do we do? Mary inquired desperately. How do we get out of here? The demon had them trapped like mice in a cage—it was using its overwhelming fountain of energy to keep the door and window shut no matter what. Mary wasn’t strong enough to kick the door open, let along break the wind—
Mary’s eyes widened. That was it. That was how she was going to get herself and her friends out of here. The window. Using the fact that the demon hadn’t noticed her to her advantage, Mary turned to the wardrobe and yanked open its doors, sliding out one of the sturdy, heavy wooden shelves at its bottom. Then she whipped back to the window, crept as close to it as she could without getting noticed and used her good arm to take aim…
†††
“Mary?” Noah’s voice was laced with worry. “Mary, are you all right?”
Mary straightened up and wiped the back of her shaky hand across her mouth. She could feel everyone’s—Noah’s, Mason’s, Avery’s, Margaret’s, and Tamara’s— eyes on her from where she stood with her back to them, a little ways deeper into the woods. Before her was an endless pit of blackness, brought to life only by the faint rustle of leaves here and there, and the incessant sound of crickets chirping away.
Mary swallowed, grimacing as the acidic taste of bile slid its way down her throat from where it lingered in the walls of her mouth. The air now reeked of vomit, the putrid scent emanating from the puddle of mush pooled at her feet.
“Eugh,” she heard Mason say. “That’s pretty gross.”
“Shut up,” Noah replied heatedly, not seeming to grasp the fact that his words were lost to Mason’s ears so long as there wasn’t a mirror around. “You sound like a twelve year old girl.”
“Feeling better, Mary?” Tamara asked.
“Yeah,” she breathed as she made her way back to where everyone stood, waiting. “Sorry. Sometimes my panic attacks are so strong I throw up.” Mary had told them all to stay put while she ventured away the moment she felt the powerful wave of nausea wash over her. She had wanted a few moments to herself; a few seconds of solitude, so that she could close her eyes and take a deep breath without anyone talking in her ear, trying futilely to make her feel better.
Instead she threw up.
Whatever works, I guess, Mary thought as she fell in step with Mason, the two of them following Tamara’s lead while she led them back to Salazar and the empty street. Noah lagged behind, trying to console a frantic Margaret who was worried about the state of her husband.
At least I feel better now, Mary thought. It’s like I vomited my anxiety out, left it to rot amidst leaves and shrubbery and grass.
Yet the foreboding words of the demon, the pain that had lanced through her arm, the revelation that the demon had been watching her in her private moments—all of it threatened to make her throw up all over again.
“Here.”
Mary ceased her internal monologue, Mason’s voice tugging her away from her thoughts. She peered up at him questionably.
He frowned, clearing his throat. “Well don’t just look at me like that.” He extended his hand out to her. “Here. Take one.”
She glanced down at his palm, catching sight of a blue circular container with a popped open lid, revealing several disc-shaped mints peppered with blue.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Icebreakers? Mason, I thought we broke the ice between us the moment I woke up to find you staring at me back at the cemetery.”
He gave her a flat look, to which she dimpled teasingly. “Are you going to take one or not? I’m trying to be a gentleman here.”
“You would have Icebreakers in your pocket,” Mary commented as she popped one in her mouth.
Mason snapped the lid closed and stuffed the container back into his jeans. “You’ve always gotta be prepared,” he explained. “Never know when you might find yourself wanting to kiss some hot chick you’re vibing with—right after lunch. Or when some pretty girl might need one.” He nudged her gently and winked.
The powerful, icy taste of the mint exploded in Mary’s mouth like a burst of cold air, eradicating the lingering taste of bile and acid. Already Mary felt better than moments before—although her neck continued to ache and her head and feet stung with cuts from glass.
“Mary, come quick!” Tamara called. Mary hadn’t realized she and Mason had slowed their pace during their conversation; Tamara was already on the street, beside Salazar. “The man’s waking up!”
Everyone picked up their pace; Noah, Margaret and Avery reached Tamara in a blink, a lot quicker than Mary and Mason did as they struggled against their injuries. By the time they got there the man appeared to be fully conscious, if a bit disorientated. He was sitting up with his frail palms flat against the asphalt of the street for support, glancing around dazedly.
“Sir,” Mr. Salazar’s deep voice inquired smoothly, concerned. “Are you well, sir?”
“Thomas,” Margaret cried. She was knelt before him so that they were at eye level—yet whereas Margaret’s hazel gaze attempted to hold her husband’s, Thomas’ pale, unfocused ones wandered around, drinking in his surroundings and seeing right through her. Margaret reached out to touch his face, her fingers seeping into him as if he were intangible. With a cry she buried her face in her hands in what could have been an act of grief or relief.
“Thank God you’re okay,” she sniffed.
Thomas tilted his head up, his gaze landing on Mr. Salazar. “Yes I’m quite all right,” he finally replied, confusion ripe in his hoarse voice. He pulled his bushy eyebrows together. “What… what am I doing here?” His eyes swept over the group of teenagers ringing him and the wrinkles on his face deepened with the frown that curved the edges of his thin lips. “Who are all you people?”
So it appeared that the hosts of demonic possessions didn’t retain any memory from the time in which they were being controlled. This was a new discovery to Mary, although she had stumbled upon a few references to this fact in her research—and other sources that claimed the opposite occurred. Mary then came to notice that every person she had known to be possessed by a demon had ended up dead before she could confirm these claims. She glanced painfully at Noah, who was continuing with his self-assigned job as the support and comfort of Margaret and Avery, murmuring soothing words to Margaret. A stab of guilt pierced through Mary, nearly knocking the wind out of her.
Not now, she thought desperately. You can’t think about that night now. You need to focus.
“We’re good samaritans,” Salazar explained. “We were driving down this road here when we saw you passed out on the street. Unfortunately, my daughter here has quite a habit of speeding—she’s still learning how to drive. So when she saw you she freaked out and sent us all crashing into that tree over there.”
The old man fell for the story quite easily—but then again, it was quite difficult to deny an explanation like that when there was a smoking car with a hood bent out of shape just a few feet away, and when you suffered from Alzheimer’s.
Mary was glad to see that the demon had left Thomas’ body thoroughly intact—as opposed to the last one that had possessed somebody she had known, setting their body on fire. She stifled a disturbed shudder at the memory. The image of Isaac’s figure being licked by the wild tongues of flames would haunt her forever.
Yet right now Mary was more concerned with Mr. Salazar than anything else: he had lied to her when she confronted him back at school, dismissing her claims as delusional statements resulting from her mental illness. Now the truth—one that Mary had known all along—was out in the open, and she was determined to find out why Salazar had kept himself a secret in the first place. She also wanted to know all of the things he knew about the demons she had set free to wreak havoc in Cullis Port. She wanted to know if he knew how to stop them, and more importantly, how to close the gate.
A confrontation was definitely due. So when Salazar, after examining Thomas for any injuries, offered to take the old man home, Mary promptly spoke up.
“Actually, I was hoping we could talk,” she told him with a penetrating stare. “Tamara can take Thomas to his house."
“Tamara and I will both go. She has to take me to my car as well.” He stepped closer to Mary and lowered his voice so that only she and Mason could hear. “I’m afraid I can’t stay and chat, Mary, since the police are on their way. As one can imagine, things could get messy if my presence is seen here.”
Mary eyed him incredulously. “You called the police?”
“Shit,” Mason cursed beneath his breath. “That means my parents—“
“You two require medical attention,” Salazar interjected smoothly. “Of course I called the police. An ambulance should be here at any moment as well.”
As if on cue, the faint wailing of sirens could be heard in the distance, like symphony of wild cries. Mary stiffened and Mason let out another curse. Salazar hadn’t called the cops because he was worried about their injuries. His concern might have played a small role in his reasoning, but the main driving force behind his decision was the fact that he wanted to avoid talking to Mary about what had just happened between him and the demon, and using Cullis Port’s law enforcement has acted as a perfect excuse.
Salazar bobbed his head politely. “Goodnight, Mary. Mason.”
Mary took a stumbling step forwards, towards Salazar as he turned to leave. “But we need to talk! You lied—“
“I have no idea what you are talking about.” Salazar didn’t even bother turning around to face her as he spoke; he simply continued on with his casual stride, waving a dismissive hand. “All I know is that this poor man here requires my help. Goodnight.”
Mary groaned internally. Not this clueless act again.
“You—you can’t just leave!” Noah cried. “You owe her an explanation.”
Suitcase in hand, Salazar helped the old man into Tamara’s car, Margaret close at her husband’s side. “I owe her nothing.”
“Tamara,” Mary called to her ex-best friend, who had been eyeing the scene unfolding before her with thin lips and wide eyes. “Tam— don’t go.”
She hesitated, looking between Mary and Mason. “I… have to. If the police find me here my dad will find out, and he’ll kill me.”
“Come on,” Salazar ordered as he got into the passenger’s seat of the car. “The police will be here any second.”
“Well, don’t let him go, then!” Mary called out, gesturing pointedly to Salazar. Tamara simply shrugged apologetically, glancing at the passenger seat as if to say “there’s nothing I can do about that now.” Then her gaze shifted to Mason. “If you need anything, text me. Okay?”
Mary didn’t really have time to feel jealous over the fact that Tamara had addressed that concerned offer to Mason only, because her attention was quickly caught by the sight of Tamara ducking into her clunky Toyota, the car making a sharp U-turn and peeling away. It drove quickly in the direction in which it had come just as a wild flicker of lights appeared in the distance, accompanied by a chorus of sirens.
“Ugh,” Mary groaned, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her palms. “I can’t believe this.”
“They just ditched us,” Noah muttered. He was standing at her side in the middle of the street, watching the lights approach them with Avery’s tiny hand clasped with his. “Can you say worst night ever?”
Mary cut him a severe sidelong glance. “Right, because the night you died wasn’t nearly as horrible. Not at all.”
Noah winced. “Okay, so that was pretty bad.”
Mary opened her mouth to respond when a rough hand clamped down on her forearm. Mason began half-dragging her towards the side of the road where his car had crashed, away from the middle of the street.
“Now,” he began, his back to her as she stumbled to keep up with his brisk pace, “is not the time to have a conversation with an invisible dead guy. And the middle of a goddamn road is definitely not the place.”
“Geez, take it easy,” Noah grumbled, glaring at an unsuspecting Mason. “Can’t you see she’s hurt?”
“Mason—“ Mary started to protest, demanding her release her—but when they reached the edge of the forest, the soles of their shoes meeting a prickly carpet of grass, he quickly let go. He rushed over to his totaled car without so much as a glance back at her, yanking open its door and sitting halfway inside; his left foot was firmly planted on the ground, his car door remaining open.
Curious to see what he was up to, Mary reached the car and peered through its open door, into the shadows. Mason had his phone light on, using the glow it provided as he rummaged through shards of glass and the ejected airbags and empty bottles of alcohol, in search of something.
“Come on, come on,” he muttered to himself just as the police arrived. They blocked the street: three police cars and an ambulance, their bright, blinking lights sending urgent shadows dancing across the ground. The sight threatened to thrust Mary back into a past memory, a memory that involved a dark December night similar to this one, a memory painted in shades of red, white, and blue, of grief and guilt and loss…
She managed to catch herself before the flashback fully emerged in her mind, pushing it all aside with so much effort that it made her head ache. The night of Noah’s death was a dark stain of a memory that she could never wipe clean from her mind, but for now she managed to keep her attention focused on her present issues, turning around to face Mason.
“Mason?” Mary inquired. “What are you doing?”
“Where the hell is it?” he murmured angrily, his voice strained as he searched below his the seats. The sound of the sirens had ceased abruptly, the echoing of car doors slamming as officers and paramedics poured out of their vehicles.
“They’re coming,” Mary said in a hushed voice. “Whatever it is you’re looking for, you better find it fast.”
“Found it.” Relief was ripe in Mason’s words as he slid out of the car with in object gripped in his hand.
“A wallet?” Mary asked incredulously. “Why—“
“Don’t worry about it,” he cut her off coolly, meeting her gaze for only a moment. He quickly focused his attention on the officers, stalking past Mary to approach them.
“What’s up with him?” Noah wondered aloud. “He went from flirty to grumpy in, like, one minute.”
“He’s not a big fan of police officers, remember?” Mary whispered back, recalling the rude, bratty way in which Mason had behaved when speaking with Officer Jules and Officer Sage the day he found her at the cemetery. “Plus he’s seventeen and has been drinking at a huge house party he threw behind his parents back. He’s probably upset they’re going to find out.”
“Aren’t you upset your parents are going to find out?”
“Yes,” she mumbled, casting her gaze downwards. “If they don’t already know.” Mary sighed. “This night’s about to get a whole lot worse, isn’t it?”
Noah smiled sympathetically, but said nothing as Mary gathered her wits and went to face the officers.
†††
As it turned out, the night did indeed become a whole lot worse. And it stretched on forever, lasting until the wee hours of the morning when Mary finally got home and collapsed onto her bed—yet failed to fall asleep. The evening’s wild series of events were still ripe in her mind, preventing her from attaining a peaceful rest. Her thoughts were alive with questions as the demon’s words echoed in her ears. She felt paranoid, knowing that a demon could very well be watching her right then, as she lie in bed in the same clothes she wore to Mason’s party because she was afraid of stripping down and exposing herself. She wondered how Salazar would act Monday at school—if he would brush off her accusations as simple acts of illness, or if he would finally tell her what he knows about this whole mess. Her neck still ached with a mild case of whiplash, yet the paramedics had told her she didn’t require a neck brace—it would heal in a few days’ time. Still, she couldn’t find a comfortable spot on her pillow because of the pain, and it didn’t help that her body was throbbing with bandaged cuts and gashes.
Mary’s parents, as one could imagine, were absolutely furious that Mary had snuck out of the house while they were out to dinner. But their anger wasn’t reflected; instead Mary detected a wariness in their voices and sadness in their eyes—which was worse, because it proved to her that they had lost the energy to feel that fury; that now they were just as exhausted as she was. Her father had told her he thought he had raised her better than that, then proceeded to blame himself for being a bad parent. Her mother broke down in tears, a pitiful, hopeless look in her eyes that made Mary’s heart cave in her chest. Mary’s actions hurt them because they loved her, but they didn’t understand that Mary loved them just as much, and she hated herself for being the reason for their misery, for their stress lines and tear-filled eyes and worried frowns.
She supposed it was because of her guilt for ruining her parent’s lives that Mary agreed to visit Dr. Dashner’s office the next day. Her parents had declared her mental health wasn’t improving as they had previously begun to assume: Mary had taken one step forwards and two steps back in her progress.
Yet it wasn’t Mary’s family issues, or physical issues, or even paranormal issues that seemed to be tugging at her the most, depriving her from sleep. She was somewhat surprised when she realized that the main reason why she couldn’t slip into unconsciousness—even after taking her pills— was because she couldn’t stop thinking about Mason.
As expected, the officers found traces of alcohol in Mason’s system—yet it wasn’t enough to cite him for a DUI. They had also insisted on Mary taking the alcohol test, something she never thought she’d ever have to do in her entire life. Mason protested this with that same foul attitude he seemed to use on all of Cullis Port’s law enforcement personnel, and Noah was just as outraged—although he was genuinely offended, unlike Mason who seemed to be simply eager to pick a fight.
Shortly thereafter the police began with their questioning, and there was one particular part of their conversation with Mason that stood out to her. She was talking to another police officer just a few feet away from Mason, still able to catch the words that were being spoken despite Mason’s attempt at secrecy.
“Look,” Mason had murmured lowly, leaning forwards so that he and the officer—who was about the same height—were close enough to kiss. He lowered his gaze and opened up his wallet, exposing however amount of money was stashed inside its pocket. “I’ll pay you a decent amount if you keep what happened tonight from my parents. That includes the little party I had back at my place.”
It seemed typical of Mason to want to bribe someone in order to get out of trouble—but Mary thought he’d have more common sense than to try that on a law enforcement officer. She knew Mason was smarter than that, which could only mean one thing: he was desperate. Very desperate.
What was even more surprising, though, was the officer’s response.
The officer proceeded to chuckle rather haughtily. “Sorry, kid, but your parents have got you beat,” he muttered back, voice so low Mary had to strain her ears and tune out the officer talking to her in order to catch his words. “They already know, and they promised to double whatever you offered if we kept this crash and your party from the media. You know, the usual.”
She recalled the look of anger that twisted Mason’s heartbreakingly handsome face into something short of frightening. She thought she saw mix of some other emotion there, hidden behind the mossy green of his irises, folded between the lines drawn across his forehead. Fear.
Overhearing that conversation had left Mary wondering the same question as she tossed and turned all night: if the Montgomery’s had this much control over the police, what else could they be hiding?
†††
Dr. Dashner’s office was pristine as usual, each meticulously-placed object or piece of furniture organized in the exact same places and positions they always were in. Mary always played a little game with herself whenever she was sentenced to endure two long, torturous hours of inconclusive conversation in the young woman’s office. She’d allow her eyes to wander about the room, drinking in every last detail (the scented aroma sticks sitting on her cherry wood desk; the glass bowl of potpourri opposite a bowl of mints on the small table between doctor and patient; the ticking grandfather clock backed up against the far wall; the pot of fresh flowers soaking in the sun by the window), in search of anything new or different—something out of place in this drab world of redundancy and order. She always failed.
It was no secret to either of them that Mary hated these scheduled visits, even if the young teenager always treated her psychologist with the kind of respectful politeness one would use on any adult. With masked reluctance, Mary settled into her seat, poised on its edge; Dr. Dashner followed suit, shoulders relaxing into her leather chair’s backrest.
She adjusted her glasses and dimpled, exposing a blinding white smile. “It is so nice to see you, Mary. It's been a bit longer than usual.”
“Yeah, it has,” Mary replied. “It's nice to see you, too.”
“How have you been? I hear you had quite the adventure last night.”
Mary hesitated, absently rubbing her right arm, where the prickling pain had lanced through her at the demon’s words. “You could say that, yes.”
Dr. Dashner’s sharp eyes picked up on Mary’s compulsive action immediately, and she scribbled something down in her notes. Mary ceased her repetitive movement and mentally chastised herself; she couldn’t recall when exactly she’d gotten into the habit of doing things like that, but she hated it. Dr. Dashner glanced back up at her with concern. “Are you okay?”
Not at all. “Yes.”
“Do you want to talk about what happened?”
It’s not like you’ll believe me, anyway. “No.”
“Your parents tell me you have been adamantly refusing to attend our sessions,” Dr. Dashner accused lightly, a trace of scorn weaved into her smooth voice. “I recognize this is probably my fault because of what I said during our last meeting. The name I mentioned. It upset you. Am I right?”
Mary exchanged a quick, knowing glance with Noah. No. “Yes. Sorry, I—“
“No need to apologize.” She smiled thinly. “I understand that it a very sensitive topic. I apologize.”
“It’s okay,” Mary replied. She bit down on her lip, fiddling with the frayed end of her trench coat sleeve. “Dr. Dashner? Can I—can I ask you something?”
Dr. Dashner had never been asked such a question by her patient; she tended to resort to clipped responses, which led to a conversation dictated by the young psychologist’s relentless stream of inquiries. Thus, as one could imagine, when her patient announced she was the one who had a question for her to answer, she nearly sprung off her seat with excitement, her wide eyes and even wider smile betraying her eagerness.
“Of course! What is it?”
“Well,” Mary began hesitantly; she absently rubbed her thumb against the inside of her right palm. “I, um—the first disorder the doctors diagnosed me with, what was it called? Post…”
“Post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD,” Dr. Dashner clarified. “It typically follows a rather traumatic event in an individual’s life—one that affects them so much their mind winds up enduring some damage.”
“And in my case, that was when Noah died.” Dr. Dashner’s eyes widened fractionally with surprise; her pen slid from her grasp. “What?” Mary asked warily.
“Noah. You said his name. This is the first time you’ve done that in casual conversation.” She seemed impressed and rather excited.
“Oh.” It was true, Mary realized—at least with Dr. Dashner. Before Noah’s ghost appeared before her, she could never bring herself to talk about him unless it was to accuse him of haunting him and begging him to stop. It hurt too much. Now that those beliefs had been proven wrong--now that Noah was by her side-- Mary no longer treated him as if he were a taboo subject. She didn't miss him as much as she had before. “I guess you’re right.”
Mary watched her psychologist jot down more notes with the fluid movements of her pen. “Anyway,” she continued, “I wanted to ask you if… if memory loss is a symptom of PTSD.”
By this point Noah had begun objecting loudly, insisting that Mary didn't suffer from any sort of mental illness--not schizophrenia, not depression, and certainly not PTSD. But lately, Mary had begun to have her doubts. At least about the PTSD part.
“Some studies have found a link between the two, yes,” the psychologist replied slowly, confusion ripe in her voice. “They claim that the psychological effects of PTSD may correspond with physical damage to the brain as a result of trauma. Particularly affected by stress is the part of the brain called the hippocampus, which is responsible for organizing memories and making associations.”
“So it’s possible?” she whispered. “I might have done something the night Noah died—something I don’t remember?”
“Maybe, but it’s doubtful,” she said with an assuring tone, which didn’t assure Mary much at all. “You didn’t kill him, Mary. It was an accident.” Dr. Dashner looked pleased to be able to discuss the night Noah died without having Mary throw a fit and scream so loud the medics would have to sedate her.
“I know I didn’t.” But I might as well have. Mary sighed, bringing her knees up to her chin and wrapping her arms around her legs. She looked down at her right palm, recalling the unbearable pain that had resided there last night, and up her arm. It was her fault Noah was dead; that was a fact. But now she was beginning to think there was something else going on—there was something she was unaware of about that night because she couldn’t remember, something that occurred. She’d relived what happened repeatedly since the day Noah died—whether it was because she liked to torture herself or because she was having a nightmare—, and as she lie in bed the night before, waiting for sleep to find her, she had done so again, hoping to find a gap in events, like the edited out moments of a film. She had come up frustratingly empty. “I know I didn’t,” she repeated, voice barely above a whisper.
And yet the demon had said its kind knew more about Mary than she knew herself. Perhaps they were responsible for her loss of memory, and not simply some form of psychological trauma. Perhaps her worries that she actually did suffer from a mental illness were for nothing.
“Mary,” Dr. Dashner began with a frown, “remember what we talked about when we first met. One of our first sessions involved how to cope with guilt, and how to prevent it from molding your life into something it doesn’t have to be.”
She continued to rub her right palm with her thumb, this time with more force, as if she could uncover the pain again. “I remember.”
There must have been something about the way Mary spoke, or the expression on her face, that prompted Dr. Dashner to quietly inquire, “Have you been taking your antidepressants, Mary?”
“Yes,” she whispered shakily. Whatever was going on, Mary had to figure it out. The demons might have led her to question her sanity, and kept her from changing or showering, and inflicted physical damage upon her body, but one thing they had to yet do was make her give up.
Dr. Dashner cocked her head, the sun reflecting off her glasses. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
But she was so tired. So, so tired. Mary pressed her thumb so deeply into her palm she felt the veins beneath her skin shift and her bones crack.
“Y-yeah,” she managed out through tears; her lip quivered uncontrollably, and she shut her eyes against the blurriness. Then she broke into a sob and buried her face in between her knees, allowing her cries to rack her shoulders until she ran out of tears to let fall.
_______________________________________________
A/N- Hey guys, I'm back! If you've stuck with this story after my short hiatus, thank you so much! I had to take a break from writing to focus on finishing up school with exams, and now I'm basically done - I graduate next week! Anyway, the writing in this chapter sucks and there's probably more errors than usual, but I didn't want to keep you guys waiting any longer. Let me know what you thought of the chapter by commenting and/or voting! Thank you :)