Chapter 20 | Cracked Porcelain
Three Days Grace | One-X – Animal I Have Become
The water ran over her hands, but the blood wouldn't wash away.
She scrubbed desperately, fingers shaking, but it was always the same. The red stains clung to her skin like they were a part of her, sinking deeper no matter how hard she tried to cleanse them. The mirror above the sink fogged up, blurring her reflection. And then, letter by letter, words bled through the condensation:
BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS
Her breath hitched. "No… it's not…" But the words wouldn't fade.
Panic seized her chest, her pulse pounding in her ears as she stumbled out of the bathroom, into the halls of the mansion. It was all too familiar. She had seen this dream before—lived it over and over.
She braced herself as she reached the ballroom doors, expecting to see her friends.
She pushed the doors open—
Nothing.
The vast ballroom stretched before her, but it was empty. No music, no chatter, no movement. Just vacant chairs, untouched plates, glasses left half-full.
Her stomach twisted. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
A chill settled in her bones. The air was thick, like something unseen was watching. The hairs on her arms prickled. As she stepped further into the ballroom, her vision stretched, the walls pulling away from her like she was walking into an endless void.
A voice slithered into her ear, warped and mocking:
"You think they've forgotten what you've done? The parties. The arrogance. The silence."
Goosebumps crawled across her skin. Subtle cracks appeared in the floor beneath her feet, spreading outward like a spiderweb. The ballroom shifted.
And suddenly, it was full.
People filled the room. Her friends, her parents' business associates, figures she barely recognized. They laughed, clinked glasses, dined as if she wasn't there. Her breath caught. She walked toward a familiar face, one of her friends. She raised a trembling hand. Slowly, cautiously, half-expecting her to fall over as a flat cutout. She touched her friend's shoulder…
Cold. Too cold.
She gasped, yanking her hand away. Her friend didn't react. Didn't turn. Didn't even blink.
Pacifica's chest tightened. She turned in circles, eyes darting between familiar faces, but none of them looked at her. The voices around her grew louder, sharper, overlapping. She could hear everything. Every swindle. Every deal made behind someone's back. Every bit of laughter. Every mocking remark.
"The name means power."
"Don't talk back."
"They aren't worth anything."
"This is who you are."
Then, she heard a voice that sent ice through her veins—her own. But younger.
"I don't care what happens to them."
She staggered back, spinning toward the grand staircase in the middle of the room. And there, standing between her parents, was herself.
It was uncanny. Her skin was pale, like porcelain. Fragile but elegant. Shadows pooled in the recesses of her dress, under her bangs, hiding her eyes. She stood there, content between her parents, with an unsettling, almost unmoving smile on her face.
Pacifica stared at this version of herself, her feet shaking. Her hands shot to her ears, trying to block out the voices around her.
No… No. I didn't mean that!
The cracks in the floor spread, growing deeper, darker. The ballroom warped, shifting into something wrong. Chandeliers hung at crooked angles. Reflections lined the walls. A subtle gray hue outlined everything, making the room look hazy. Unreal.
Everyone was still there, dining and laughing. But they weren't right. Faint afterimages flickered over them, like shadows burned into a warped reality.
Her legs threatened to buckle under the weight of her distress. She clenched her fists, her vision blurring as she looked around the room again. The mocking voice echoed louder, sharper.
"All you know how to do is lie and manipulate. Just like us."
The voice intensified. The floor cracked under her. The walls bent inward, closing around her. She looked down, suddenly breathless.
Before her was a porcelain mask.
And it looked just like her.
A tremor ran through her as she bent down, hesitantly picking it up. The mask's pale surface gleamed in the dim haze, eerily smooth. Holding it sent a strange pull through her chest—an invitation.
Before she could stop herself, she lifted it to her face.
It slipped on effortlessly.
Her breath was hot against the mask, sealed inside. And suddenly, she felt calm. In control. Through the eyeholes, the ballroom had changed. It was normal again. Warm golden hues bathed the room. The guests moved as they always had—laughing, adjusting their hair, smoothing the creases from their clothes.
Her body shook.
Why does this feel so… calm?
The thought gnawed at her, unbearable. The mask was warm. Comfortable. Too comfortable. A guilty pleasure. A dangerous indulgence.
Then, the voice whispered in her ear.
"They don't trust you. They shouldn't. You're a Northwest. You leech. You inherit. You are nothing without it."
A fine crack splintered through the porcelain. A brittle noise, like glass under pressure, filled her ears.
The mask began to fall apart.
Panic seized her as she grasped at it, her fingers desperately trying to hold it together. But the fractures deepened. The pieces slipped through her fingers, clinking onto the wooden floor beneath her.
She watched them drop. Her legs gave out.
She fell to her knees, her trembling hands brushing over the broken shards. Then, beneath them, something glimmered—
A reflection.
She hesitated, pushing the pieces aside.
And then she gasped, covering her mouth with her hands.
Her own face stared back.
But it wasn't her.
It was monstrous.
Her skin was as pale as the porcelain shards around her. Her eyes were dark, sunken into her skull. Her face was thin—her cheekbones jutted out like mountain peaks. Her bangs were disheveled, an unsettling gap splitting them down the middle.
Her stomach churned.
She clawed at her face, running trembling fingers over her skin, desperate for some confirmation that it was hers.
Then, the voice boomed inside her skull.
"This is who you are."
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over. But they weren't warm. They were cold—too cold. Icy trails streaked down her cheeks, burning like frostbite.
She blinked.
The streaks weren't clear anymore.
They were red. Blood.
Her breath hitched. She swiped at her cheeks, frantic. But the more she wiped, the worse it got. The blood smeared across her skin, clinging like glue. A stain that could bever be washed away.
The reflection in the floor twisted, distorting into a dull gray hue.
She tore her gaze away, heart hammering. The room had changed again. Hazy, unnatural. That gray outline surrounded everything once more. The guests around her moved in slow motion, blurry afterimages shifting over them, unstable.
She choked on a whimper, biting back the sobs clawing at her throat. She tried to stand up, pushing her legs to move.
And then—
A voice.
A real voice.
One that made her heart drop.
"Pa… Pacifica?"
Her breath hitched.
She looked up.
Dipper.
His voice punched her in the gut.
Dipper stared, his face twisted in shock. Mabel clung to his arm, shaking, her wide eyes locked onto Pacifica in horror. They looked at her like she was something unnatural. Something wrong.
Something disgusting.
Like they were staring at an animal.
Pacifica choked on a sob, coughing as her cries broke free. She saw it—saw the way their expressions shifted, saw the fear in their eyes. They were backing away.
"No—no, please!" she gasped, reaching out in desperation.
But they didn't stop.
The room stretched as they backed away, their image fading. The gray hues devoured their forms, erasing them, leaving her alone.
Then, the voice mocked her.
"You'll never escape."
The floor splintered. The walls folded inward. The entire world collapsed in on itself as she plunged into a hollow, endless void.
She screamed, the sound swallowed by the abyss.
Her vision fractured.
And then—
GONG!
Pacifica lurched upright, gasping. The echo of the hallway clock vibrated through the silence, grounding her back in reality.
Her nightgown clung to her skin, soaked in sweat. Her breaths came in ragged, uneven gasps. The room was dark. Tears stained her cheeks. Her pulse thundered in her ears, but the cold press of reality was unmistakable.
It was just a dream.
But it didn't feel like one.
She pressed a shaking hand to her face, tracing her skin like she had to make sure it was still her own. But was it? After everything, after what she saw, a question filled her thoughts. One that burned deeper than any cutting remark her parents would make.
What if this was who I really am?