I wake up hungry. My room is dimly lit, the soft glow of the morning sun filtering in. It takes a moment for my surroundings to fully register. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and shuffle into the kitchen. The remnants of the night before linger—a half-empty tea cup, slightly burnt toast. I can't seem to shake the feeling of restlessness. Being confined to my apartment is an unfamiliar sensation, and I find myself yearning for the routine of work, the familiar hum of the storage room.
I brew a cup of the tea that Sasha gave me, and I add honey and two fingers of milk. It is so delightfully dark, the milk adds a smooth flair. I have a piece of toast that is a bit too dark. I do not taste it as I eat it. It is more of a distraction than a meal. I am so incredibly bored. I find myself with the peculiar situation of having absolutely nothing to do.
I miss working already. What am I supposed to do for only Elias knows how long? I am being so silly. I cannot possibly be feeling sad over being unproductive at this point in time. My mind is preoccupied with the void left by my absence from the Institute. It's unsettling, this solitude, and I can't shake the sense that something significant is happening beyond these walls. I am not worth that which I do. I am not! I suppose it is a hard thing for anyone to overcome. I pace around the apartment, my thoughts drifting to a darker time—a time when confinement was not a choice but a punishment. My mom would lock me in the closet with only a light, and no way out if I did not do as she asked. I try to push these memories aside, bury them beneath the weight of the present, but they linger like ghosts.
I once spent three days in the closet before I gave into her. I stopped fighting at some point because I did not want to suffer anymore. I did what she asked of me. She wanted us to overtake the Lukas's, to be a power comparable to Nikola Orsinov or Maxwell Rayner. I was supposed to be her golden ticket to a ritual for the Lonely. I led so many people to their wandering torment at my mom's hand. My mother's ambitions, my claustrophobia, and my surrender.
I cannot blame her for everything that I did, and I will not pretend to be a good person. People have suffered worse than death at my hands. I am not innocent. I just didn't want the rest of my humanity to go to my mother's cause. You could say I traded one evil for another, but at least it dresses well. My mom dresses like a colorblind Mormon. I guess it is a part of her lackluster aesthetic she has going on, but it's ass.
I nurse my lukewarm tea. The taste has gone bitter, yet I drink all the way down to the dregs. I swirl the leaves in my cup, and reveal a shape much like a door. I hear a door knob rattle somewhere. I have a guest.
I follow the sound of the rattle, it grows more intense. "Just let yourself in at this point!" As I turn the corner into my living room, I see a red door with a brass knob swing shut. It sits above and behind the couch. I see the ever anticipated distorted Michael spread over my couch like a lazy roommate. He looks far too comfortable.
"I said you could come in. I didn't say you could make yourself comfortable."
His eyes flicker like a radio station, and his straw blond hair frizzes with them. "Aww, you're missing out on all the fun, you know?"
"I have time off."
"What for?"
"Maternity leave."
He laughs like a churchbell, and the noise is dissonant yet charming. His laugh is a little like a falling star.
"You are such a liar! Why do you do that?"
"Do what."
He stands up, and in the blink of an eye he is before me, grasping my hand tightly. He was so tall and stretched before me. I did not realize how much larger than me it was. His hand is heavy and dense. A round of my bandages slips off as his sharpness cuts through them. They draw blood from my palm. I think this is actually worse than my handshake with Tim that first time. At least that one I was able to escape.
"Helen, was it? Lovely to meet you." The distorted Michael raises my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against it. The feeling of its lips on my skin is sharp like TV static, and as he pulls away, I can still feel the pressure of his presence. "It really is a shame you're missing the party." They drop my hand, and a strap of my bandage tears away, caught on his fingers. "What happened here?"
"I fell down the stairs."
"You don't need to look so nervous, you know? I know that you're a major player on the board. I am trying to befriend you."
"You are doing a pretty shit job of it." I tear the rest of the bandages off. My arm is fine for the most part. I watch as the cut he made to my hand closes.
"It's not like I stabbed you."
I give him a look sharper than his fingers, and his laugh rings out once more. "Okay, okay. I'll see you another time. Don't tell too many truths." The distortion pulls away, taking with it the door that does not belong.
The rest of my first day off passes without much trouble. I decide that my paid leave will be the perfect time to watch as many scary movies as I see fit. Time whittles by day by day. I make coffee in the morning and then tea and then more tea.
The next day, I get a text from Tim in the morning. He asks me if I am alright. He tells me of the siege the Institute experienced at the wormy decaying hands of the now deceased Jane Prentiss. He had worried about me when Sasha did not run into me in Artefact Storage. I think it must have been very scary if she went to Artefact Storage of all places, she abhors that place. I told him I had fallen ill, and that I am at home resting.
He asks me if he can come by with some soup and Martin. So, here I am with Martin and Tim in my living room while I pretend to be pathetically ill, and Martin rants and raves about worms. They invited Sasha, but she declined. She is doing some late night research.
"There was a door of worms?" My voice is hoarse and cracked. I screamed myself hoarse after I realized they were coming over. Full commitment.
"Yes!"
"Gross," my voice makes a particularly awful squeak, and my throat really does hurt. Martin disappears into my kitchen to most likely make me another cup of tea. Another cup. Not that I don't appreciate it, but I am going to have to pee so much tonight.
"I thought I was going to die," Tim said.
"I thought he was going to die too," Martin piped in.
I laughed, and it grated against my throat, "And I'm dying!"
"Will you be well enough to be at work next week?"
"Oh, yeah, it's probably just a couple days bug." As I say bug, Martin's face twists into an expression of disgust. He has returned with my tea in hand.
Tim offers me a dewy eyed sympathetic look. "Are you sure you'll be alright?"
I raise my fresh cup of tea, "I have got the best medicine right here!" I go for a sip, and it is way too hot, and I burn my tongue. I wince and then give them a weak smile. "Your concern means so much to me, but I would love to hear more about the, uh, worms."
"Martin found Gertrude's dead body," Tim exclaimed.
Tim and Martin debate how much they should share with me, and their version of events is told rather poorly and not at all in order. I listen as well as I can, interjecting with the occasional cough or hoarse comment. Tim and Martin seem to buy my act. I am actually grateful they came. They fill the silence and the time that was so empty before.
My phone rings in another room. "I'll go get it," Tim jumps over the couch and comes back with my phone in hand, "Who is Renee," he asks.
My face pales and I choke on my tea. Martin takes the cup from me and fumbles around, not knowing what to do. When I can get a breath in again I tell them, "That would be my mother."
He passes me my phone, his fingers linger in the air. There is an awkwardness growing between us. "You said your parents were dead."
"Well, my dad is." I reject her call.
"You said parents. That implies both."
"She's dead to me," I offer up, my tone laced with bitterness.
"I suppose I can believe that. You do look like you have seen a ghost. Aren't you supposed to be away from the Institute right now."
"If you must know," I consider the notification glowing on my screen. She left a voicemail.
"Helen, you don't have to tell us."
"I really didn't want to go into the family business. We can listen to this, and you'll probably understand." I press play, and I switch it to speaker phone.
The room falls silent as the haunting voice of my mother fills the space, her words drip with a venom that sends shivers down my spine. The voicemail is a twisted symphony of manipulation and cruelty, a stark reminder of the darkness I had escaped. Tim and Martin exchange glances, their expressions a mix of concern and disbelief as they listen to the painful echoes of my past. I can feel tears meandering down my skin. My eyes burn.
As the voicemail plays on, the weight of my history hangs heavy in the air, intertwining with the otherworldly events that had unfolded at the Institute. It is a moment of shared vulnerability, a glimpse into the shadows that lurk beneath the surface. And as the last haunting words fade, I can't help but wonder how much of my past races to catch me.
"Damn, I would run away too."
"Tim! You should be more sensitive."
"I am being perfectly empathetic," he retorts, "She sounds like a gem. Don't you think?"
"It's fine, Martin. My mother is a bitch."
"So what have you been doing to kill time?"
"Watching scary movies."
Tim breaks out into hysterical laughter, and the disbelief that colors Martin's face is so entertaining.
I offer for them to watch with me, and the conversation lightens. We meander with chatter for a little longer, and then they finally depart.
Today was too much. I think I am going to cry, and then hope nothing happens over the weekend.
A part of me wants to send the voicemail to Elias, but it's late. I'll talk to him about it later. He said he would take care of her. I wonder how he intends to. I feel awful. He's my boss, and he's cleaning up my life for me it seems like. Our relationship truly is so strange. I know he's not really a good person by any means, but I can't help but wonder why he does all this.
I want to know.
