The Eighth Ward

Cold linoleum bites my cheek. Antiseptic and rot. My wrist burns—Patient 8, Admitted: 2013-05-14. Impossible. I’m eighteen. I was at home an hour ago. Or was I? The fluorescent light above flickers with my heartbeat. Thump-flicker. Thump-flicker.

And that shadow on the peeling wallpaper—it just twitched. It didn't follow my arm. It didn't follow the light. It just... slid toward the door.

A whisper crawls up my spine. It sounds like me. It sounds like my own voice, but older. Brittle.

"Cal? Is that you?"

I’m not alone. But I r-really wish I was.