Page 62 of Where the Dark Things Bloom

The air grew colder.

I sat up.

The sheets felt stiff. Unwashed. Familiar. My fingers brushed the edge of the night dress I wore. Cotton, white, ribbon straps knotted at the shoulders. The one Mom sewed the summer before she died. The seams had started to fray.

The mirror across the room had a crack splitting it from top to bottom, like a lightning bolt frozen in glass. My reflection stared back at me.

Younger.

Softer.

Wrong.

I stepped off the bed, knees buckling slightly like they weren’t used to holding my weight. My legs carried me to the wall before I even decided to move. I reached for the peeling wallpaper—the green one with faded roses.

The edge peeled back easily.

Underneath, written in frantic strokes, black and uneven were written words;“My mind is a dark place no one can ever escape.”

The room exhaled around me.

Or maybe I did.

I stepped away.

Hands trembling.

I looked at them.

At my skin, pale lines were carved up and down my wrists, some faint, some deeper. Faded words stared back.SORRY, FAKE, NEEDY, NOISE.

My legs. Same story.

Scars like whispers. Like secrets, no one ever wanted to hear.

I opened the cabinet in the corner. The wood moaned like it hadn’t been touched in years. Inside, a piece of paper sat alone on the shelf. Folded once. Slightly crumpled at the edges.

I picked it up.

Unfolded it.

Two words, scrawled in uneven letters:“HELP ME.”

My throat closed.

The handwriting was mine.

But I didn’t remember writing it.

Couldn’t remember when.

Couldn’t breathe.

The mirror caught my eye again.

The girl in the reflection still hadn’t moved.

She watched me.

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