There's orchestral music playing in the kitchen when you creep in, some 50's song from when your parents still truly loved each other instead of the imitation they stick to like it'll erase the wasted years gone by. Your feet stick to the laminate floor, condensation making the tiles tacky in the hot summer air. It's cloudless outside, sun beaming down in one hot ray. Sweat trickles down the back of your neck.

Your mother doesn't acknowledge you, continues stirring the pot on the stove top, gas burner on high. The flames lick the sides of the copper pot. Your mother doesn't seem to notice.

Your father sits at the kitchen table, rickety wood supporting his coffee mug and novel.

"What are we having for dinner?" you venture to ask.

It takes your mother a moment to answer, like she hadn't realized you were there or that you spoke.

"Rosemary chicken."

"Cool."

You hesitate, waiting to see if your mother is going to say anything else. She doesn't.

You set the table. Fork on the left side, knife on the right. Blade facing in.

"You forgot the placemats," your father grunts.

"I was about to get them."

He doesn't look up from his book. You set the woven geometric placemats in front of three chairs.

Time smudges together and you're sitting, fork poised in the air.

"I have a form I need you guys to sign."

There's no pause in your parents' conversation. They're reminiscing about when they went to Italy. You were six, you think. Your grandmother babysat you for the three long weeks before they came back.

You liked your grandmother.

You miss her, sometimes.

(But that's not right, she's still alive. Why did you think she was dead?)

Weird.

"It's a work permission slip. I just need one of you guys to sign it for school."

This time, your mother notices you.

Her eyebrows draw together. "Why do you need that? You're thirteen, you can't work."

"Fourteen," you correct.

"No you're not," your father laughs.

"Why do you want to work, anyway? You'll have enough of that when you're older."

You bite your tongue. You think of your shoes with gaps near the toes. It's not a problem now, in the sticky Virginia summer, but it will be come winter. You think of your clothes, two sizes too small, unable to accommodate a late puberty growth spurt that left your ankles fending for themselves out of reach of your jeans.

You think of yourself reminding your parents over and over and over.

"I just think it would be nice," you say instead, "You know. Get out of the house."

"Fact remains," your father points out, "You're too young. Minimum working age is fifteen, right?"

"Fourteen with parent permission," you insist.

Tableware clatters on the table.

"Enough!" your mother yells, "If you're going to continue to lie to us, then you can go to your room."

You look at her, lines around her eyes and mouth, cloudiness of her eyes. Through a funhouse mirror.

(You see yourself, skin cracking and creasing with time. Temperament bending and coiling in on itself until the curse fulfills itself— until the thing you want to escape the most creeps up on you.)

Cruel inevitability.

You go to your room, making sure not to slam the door behind you. Don't want to disturb your parents. You catch a glimpse of your red face in the mirror and—

Something's wrong.

Why do you look like that?

Your fourteen year old self's face stares back at you, eyes damp and confused. Your eyebrows draw together as you try to remember why you didn't recognize yourself in the mirror. Tension like ball lightning gathers in your brain.

You think you—

You're at the library. It's autumn now and the library is staying open later than usual on week days. You get to sit in the young adult's section until 9 pm, under incandescent lighting and the occasional snacks from the older librarian who works Wednesdays.

She's nice to you. Her book recommendations are always good.

Today she gave you a mystery book you've never heard of. You manage to read most of it. It's about a girl who's trying to figure out who killed her uncle before she gets ripped away and taken to an orphanage. It's a little gruesome for YA, but you like it.

Scary things always feel like home to you.

"You know," the older librarian says when she comes over again, "If you bring in two pieces of mail, you can open up a library card here. You can take the books home, if you like."

You hesitate. It's not the first time one of then librarian's has offered you the slip of paper. Probably won't be the last.

"Oh, that's okay," you lie, "I like coming here."

You work nearly every evening now. The ones you don't, you come here. Gets you out of the cold when it's not warm enough to stay outside through the evenings.

The librarian— Giselle, you remember— purses her lips.

"If you're sure," she says.

You smile back, as best you can.

"I am."

The library alert dings, a gentle chime to alert you that they're closing in fifteen minutes.

A gentle tapping starts. You look out the window. It's beginning to rain. You put your books back on the cart, keeping a mental note of what page you're on. 320.

Wait. You squint.

268.

You think, anyway. You blink as the number squirms around on the page, transmuting into different digits. Maybe you need to get glasses. Both of your parents have them. (Well— your father does. Your mother is in denial she needs them at all despite getting angry at the ingredients list on the back of her cereal nearly every day.)

You put the book away and wander around the stacks. The bookshelves are taller than you, but only by a couple feet. Dilapidated with decades of use and limited government funds to replace them. This library doesn't get a ton of use, you suppose. Too out of the way.

You wander through the 300s, past the navy armchair with the incredibly hard cushions. Languages. You don't recognize a lot of them, but you recognize the shape and texture of the covers. Hardbacks, mostly. A few torn apart paper backs. Then the 400s: Geography and History. 500s: Biographies. 700s: philosophy.

(Wait— that can't be right. You could've sworn you got cookbooks from the 700s section.)

Maybe you're misremembering.

The library lights are still on. It's been over 15 minutes, you think. You should go. You pass by the navy armchair to the end of the row and end up back at the 300s.

Weird.

You stride through the stacks, quicker this time. The bookcases repeat, stretching expansively around and around and around in an endless loop. Panic starts to well in your throat, squeezing it until you can't swallow. Can't breathe.

(What if there's no way out? If you're trapped here?)

((There's no way you can be trapped here— it's not possible. Buildings can't change shape, bookcases can't form endless labyrinths. You just got a little turned around, that has to be it. You'll find your way out and—))

"The library is closed, dear. I'm afraid you need to leave. We open back up at 10 tomorrow."

You blink up at Giselle, heart still racing in the back of your throat.

"O-oh," you manage to stutter out, "I'm sorry. I think I got lost."

Her eyebrows crinkle together in bemusement.

"That can happen in libraries," she says, "Is someone coming to pick you up?"

You shake your head. "I walk."

"It's storming out."

You shrug. "I like the rain."

She looks at you doubtfully.

"If you're sure," she pronounces carefully, "It's awfully cold."

"I'll manage."

Giselle looks at you worriedly through her eyeglasses. She's a good ten years older than your mother.

You don't think you've ever seen your mother look at you like that.

Giselle watches you through the darkened library window as you go outside, backpack slung over your shoulder. She was right, it is cold outside. Rain drips down your face, beading along your hairline. You tilt your head up and open your mouth. Saltwater drips on your tongue.

You walk home as the sky cries, wet seeping into your clothes and cold creeping into your bones. Your sneakers squelch with every step. You weren't lying, you like the rain. You prefer it in the summer when it's warm outside and the cold doesn't bite into you like it does now. When the rain tastes like fun and adventure instead of tears.

You leave wet foot tracks on the linoleum mudroom floor when you make it home. You kick your shoes off into the corner. Your feet tingle painfully as you walk on the floor. Unaccustomed to the warmth. There's french onion soup in the fridge.

You have a bowl. The microwave hums as you heat it up. Your cold fingers fumble with your spoon as they try to regain feeling. You manage to finish it. You clean your dishes and put them away.

It's too late to shower without disturbing your parents, so you get in pajamas and go to sleep. You'll shower in the morning.

Your mother was a flight attendant before you were born, as she loves to remind you. Your father worked as an accountant. They traveled across the world for nearly two decades before having you.

(Your mother assumed her period stopped from early onset menopause. At least you know if you do ever decide to have children, you're likely to have an easy pregnancy. She didn't know until near the five month mark.)

And then your mother had to quit her job as a flight attendant to work as a receptionist and you don't think your parents ever stopped being bitter about that. You suppose you'd be upset too if you lost your ability to fly anywhere for free.

You find some of her old uniforms one day, shoved in the back of her closet. Blazers and matching skirts. A blue and red scarf. You try it on and you don't look like the adult you were aiming for— just a too-lanky teenager who hasn't grown into her body yet.

(Your mom catches you and screams at you so loud your ears ring. You don't go in her closet after that).

You wake in the morning with a sniffle. Your father tells you to stop leaving tissues everywhere, it's disgusting. Your mom makes eggs, toast, and bacon for breakfast. You manage to eat some before you go to school.

(At least, you think you do. You don't remember leaving the house.)

The florescent lights of the school wash you out, fading into the background. Your sniffle evolves into a cough during third period, blooms into a fever in fourth. At least, that's what you think it is. You feel hot. You look bad enough for a teacher to take note and send you to the nurse.

You don't go, just sit in the bathroom until your class is over. You figure you can get cough drops for tomorrow. Maybe some tea. And honey. You might even be able to steal some from home: your mom has enough where she wouldn't notice.

Hopefully.

There's graffiti all over the bathroom stall, layered over years of erased sharpie. Looks like the janitors haven't erased the newest batch. 'E+B 4ever'. 'Michelle is a $lut'. 'GET OUT'.

You blink at the last one. 'GO TIGERS' it says.

You really need those glasses.

The bell rings, blaring over the speakers. Chatter fills the hallway. It's safe to come out now. Your reflection meets you when you exit the stall. Your hair is shorter than you thought. Duller. Acne dusting your cheeks. Blank eyes stare back at you, mascara falling into the creases of your eyes. You guess that's what you get for getting cheap makeup.

Something's wrong, you think, something not right about your reflection. You can't pinpoint it.

You sling your backpack over your shoulder and go to chemistry.

Your father is older than your mother by two years, balding and fully gray. He looks like a kind man— someone who helps out at church and sends meals when you have a kid. And he does.

Sometimes you think his kindness was all used up by the time you got here.

He's not bad to you. Cruel or biting. You've never heard him yell. Sometimes you think that's enough.

(Other times you wish he would just hold you, or show interest in your report cards, or do anything to show you that he cares.)

You wonder if he'd like you more if you were a son.

(You doubt it.)

You go to school for the next week, intermittently going to the bathroom to throw up. You miss the bus one day after you turn off your alarm in your sleep. Traitor.

"I'm not going to drive you," your mom says, "I have to get to work."

"It's on the way."

"Your emergency is not my emergency. You should have planned better," she snaps, shutting the fridge. The stainless steel catches your reflection.

You wonder if she sees the circles under your eyes.

"It's an hour walk."

"Then plan better next time. I don't have time and you're not staying here."

You bundle up in a winter coat and three pairs of socks. They very nearly keep you warm on the way, chills wracking your body.

You miss first period. You're late to second.

It's hard to stay awake in U.S. History, already exhausted from the walk and the low droning hum of your teacher's voice. Fatigue drips through your bones, replacing the marrow. It would be nice to sleep in your warm bed in your cramped room, dust bunnies playing beneath your mattress. There's a heat vent right underneath that blows under your mattress in the winter and fall, keeping you warm all night long. When you grow up, you're going to have the biggest bed you can buy with a hundred blankets and never ever leave.

Someone whispers your name.

(You think you recognize the voice— like something out of a dream.)

It sounds nice.

Someone calls your name, louder, and you realize it's your teacher. He scolds you for sleeping. Your classmates snigger. You don't bother to argue.

It'll just make it worse on yourself.

The day drudges on.

You're back at home, somehow, in bed with a vomit bucket on the floor. You can't remember if you ate today. Somehow, you think while spitting up into the bucket, you don't think it matters. There's lukewarm tap water on your nightstand. It tastes stale.

The room starts to spin. You close your eyes and settle down on your stomach so you don't have to move as much to make it into the bucket. You're so tired.

Your eyes blink with the ease of lead as your room grows staticky: shapes of gray and black dancing in the air. Despite the smell of sick and fever, it feels safe here. Vent blowing. The air smells dusty. You think someone touches your shoulder, feeling of warmth and comfort emanating from the spot. You turn your head.

There's no one there.

Still, your mind clings to the comfort as you manage to drift to sleep.

.

.

.

You have a strange dream. You're in a house you've never been before, haunted by a family of ghosts. One of them is still alive, unable to see his siblings— to know that they're okay. He lashes out at you when you try to tell them his family is there with him; that they still love him. He strangles you until your lips go blue, purpled fury in his eyes. You can't breathe.

You can't breathe.

.

.

.

You wake up in a hospital bed. You're alone.

It takes an hour for a nurse to come see you. She tells you that you have pneumonia, asks how long you've been experiencing symptoms. You swallow, made difficult by dehydration, and lie.

She doesn't believe you, if the crease to her forehead is any indication.

"Most patients wouldn't have symptoms this severe in only a few days. Your parents found you face down in your own vomit. You could have died. Did you tell your parents you weren't feeling well?"

"No," you say, "It was only a few days. I thought it would go away. Food poisoning, you know?"

The crease doesn't fade.

"Next time, get help as soon as you don't feel good, okay?"

You smile, tight across the teeth. Your lips are chapped.

"Do you have lip balm?"

She doesn't. You didn't think she would.

She leaves and you nestle down in your blankets. It's cold here, with the IV in your arm and metal prodding your body. You've never liked needles. Or pain.

Still, you manage to fall asleep, curled in on yourself.

It's dark when you wake up again, unsure if it's actually nighttime or if the staff dimmed the lights for you. It's hard to tell with synthetic lighting. You shift to your side, hard metal bed cutting into your body through the cot. You decide you hate hospitals. You've never been to one, not particularly accident prone. Your parents not particularly prone to taking you when you do have one.

You wonder where they are.

You pull the still-warm blanket up to your neck and prepare to go back to sleep when you see a dark figure in the corner.

"Shh," it says, "Don't be afraid."

It says your name like it knows you. Your blood goes cold.

"Who are you?" you say, voice trembling.

"A friend," he— not it— says, "You don't remember me, do you?"

He comes into the light. You scan his face, dusty hair and hazel eyes and something niggles in the back of your mind.

"I— I'm sorry, I don't."

His jaw flexes.

"I'm sorry there's not more time, but you need to wake up."

Uh oh. He's crazy.

"What do you mean?"

"This isn't real— none of this is real. This is a spell that keeps you locked inside your mind like a rat in a cage. It's trapped you inside your memories."

"That's stupid," you argue, even though you probably shouldn't talk like that to a crazy person.

"It's the truth," he says and breathes your name, the name he shouldn't know, "All of this already happened. Haven't you gotten the feeling that things are going to happen before they do? Have you seen things that shouldn't happen? Time skips?"

You bite your tongue. Iron fills your mouth.

"You're not fifteen anymore," the man says, so gently you can almost feel the weight of the words, "You grow up to be an accomplished, brave woman who tames monsters in the skins of men. I promise."

"I always thought I'd be a waitress forever."

"Actually," he says, smile curving his lips, "You become a baker."

You tilt your head. "Huh."

"But now we need you to wake up, okay?" he urges.

You have no reason to trust him: this spectre of a person hiding in your hospital room when you nearly died from your own stupidity and neglect.

You lick your dry, cracked lips. "How?"

He reaches out. "Just take my hand."

"I don't even know your name."

He smiles again, faintly.

"Yes you do."

You swallow one more time in your bruised and broken fifteen year old body with your ruined weak lungs and take his hand. The hospital room glitches and the man's eyes shine with a golden light.

Finn, you remember and then—

You wake up in the trunk of a car.

Hope you guys liked the chapter! We're so close to this fic being done.