Cheryl’s knees gave out. She sank onto the carpet, which was wet, she realized. Soggy. Like it had recently been hosed down.
That was the problem, wasn’t it? The gaps. The holes in her mind where memories should have been. She remembered Harry Mason—his kind eyes, the smell of coffee and old paper that clung to him. She remembered a car crash. Snow. But then… nothing. A chasm where her childhood should have been. The therapist called it “dissociative trauma.” Cheryl called it a curse. shattered memories cheryl
And she plunged the shard into her own heart. The church shattered. Dahlia screamed. The ash statues crumbled. And Cheryl fell into darkness, warm and quiet, like being held. Cheryl’s knees gave out
She saw a woman. Scared. Flawed. But still standing. Like it had recently been hosed down
But she didn’t wake. Instead, the walls began to bleed. Not blood—something darker. Ink. It poured from the seams, pooling at her feet, and in its reflection she saw not her own face, but another’s. A little girl with dirty pigtails and hollow eyes. A girl who was her and wasn’t her.