The Turned

When my eyes open, I’m looking at a ceiling I don’t recognize.

There’s white plaster with a crack running down the center like a lightning bolt, an expensive-looking chandelier, and heavy curtains blocking out whatever light is trying to come through.

Nothing about this makes any sense.

I try to sit up. I slide my hand on the mattress to push myself upright, and the bed frame groans like I’ve slammed down on it with my full body weight. The mattress craters beneath my palm, and the springs compress so hard I hear them protest.

I’m upright before I realize I’ve moved, and the room zips past me in a rush. My hands shake as I stare at the crater my hand left in the bedspread.

Where am I? How did I get here?

The last thing I remember is leaving work on a Thursday evening. I left around six and headed to my car in the parking garage. I remember the sound of my footsteps bouncing off the concrete. I remember thinking it was dark for so early in the evening.

After that… Nothing. It’s like someone took scissors to my memory and cut out everything that matters.

I swing my legs out of bed and stand on the plush carpet. The room tilts, and I hold onto the bedpost to steady myself. My skin feels wrong, like it’s paper-thin and stretched too tight. Something inside my body is vibrating, a hunger that starts in my stomach and spreads outward until even my fingertips ache with it.

“Okay,” I say to myself out loud. “Okay, just breathe, Thelma. You’re fine.”

But it doesn’t sound like my voice. It sounds deeper, like someone else is speaking from inside my body.

There’s a full-length mirror across from the bed, mounted on the wall next to a mahogany dresser. I move toward it without thinking. Maybe I’m looking for proof that I’m still me, that whatever happened didn’t change who I am.

I stop in front of the glass and stare at nothing.

The room behind me appears perfectly. The window with its heavy curtains. The four-poster bed with its rumpled sheets. The ornate furniture and the cream-colored walls. Everything is reflected except for me.

I reach out and touch the mirror. The glass is ice-cold and smooth, and a ripple of condensation gathers where my fingers rest. I move my hand, and the droplets move too.

When I bring my hand to my face, my fingers find skin and bone and cheekbones. My dark auburn hair is still there—I can feel it against my shoulders. But the mirror shows nothing. No face staring back at me. No pale skin.

Nothing.

I’m standing right in front of the glass, and I’m completely invisible.

“No,” I whisper. “No, that’s not right.”

I’ve always hated my cheekbones. They have too much definition. But I love my eyes. They’re the one thing I actually like about my face. Grey-green with little flecks of gold that only show up in certain light. I used to spend a fortune on eyeliner just to bring them out.

Now nothing shows in the mirror except the room I’m standing in.

I press my palms flat against the glass. The mirror cracks. A spiderweb of fractures spreads out from where I’ve touched it. I snatch my hands back. The cracks spread even more, and then the entire mirror shatters. Glass falls to the floor in a cascade of pieces.

I jump backward to avoid the shards. Except I don’t jump. I move, and suddenly, I’m on the other side of the room. I don’t even remember crossing the space. One minute, my hands were pressed against the glass, and the next, I’m here, gawking at the broken mirror, still searching for the girl who isn’t reflected anywhere.

“Okay,” I say again. “Okay, you’re okay. There’s an explanation. There’s always an explanation.”

But I don’t believe it.

I turn away from the mirror and move toward the window. My foot catches on the edge of the carpet, and I stumble. I shoot my hand out to catch myself on the wall, but my palm goes through the plaster like it’s wet clay. The hole I leave behind is the size of my hand, and dust rains down onto the carpet.

“Oh my God,” I breathe. “Oh my God.”

I pull my hand back and stare at the damage. The plaster is crumbled around the edges of the hole. This isn’t possible. This isn’t real. I’m dreaming.

I pinch my arm hard enough to leave marks, and the sting is immediate and real.

There’s no way I’m dreaming.

I move to the window and grab the curtain rod. I just need to open it. I need to see outside and get my bearings. Maybe there’s something out there that will help me make sense of this.

But when I pull the curtain back, the rod bends in my grip. Metal groans, and I realize I’ve compressed it like it’s made of foil instead of steel. The curtains fall to the floor in a heap.

Sunlight streams through the window, and I throw my hands up to shield my face. Where it touches my skin, it burns. This is deeper than a sunburn. The pain seeps into my tissue and bones, tearing me apart from the inside out.

I spin away from the window and move toward the opposite wall. My hip collides with the edge of a chair, and I hear wood splinter, but I keep going until I’m back in the shadows.

I wrap my arms around myself and breathe through the burning until it fades.

“What is happening to me?” I ask the empty room.