I throw my shoulder against the gate, the metal digging into my skin. It doesn't move. Panic, hot and sharp, threatens to overwhelm me. I slam my palms against the rusted iron, a useless, frustrated gesture.
Then, an idea.
I wedge the blades of the pruning shears into the lock mechanism, a complex tangle of rusted gears and bolts. I put my foot against the gate for leverage and pull back on the handles with everything I have. The metal of the shears groans, bending under the strain. My arms tremble, the muscles burning.
With a final, desperate heave, the lock shatters. The gate swings open with a piercing shriek of metal.
I don't hesitate. I throw myself through the opening, tumbling out of the humid, cloying air of the greenhouse and into the familiar, oppressive world of the yellow hallways.
The gate slams shut behind me, the sound echoing down the long, monotonous corridor.
I lie on the damp carpet for a moment, my chest heaving, the shears still clutched in my hand. The hum of the fluorescent lights is a welcome, familiar drone after the silence of the greenhouse. I'm alive. I made it.
I push myself up, my body a dull, throbbing ache. I'm covered in dirt, sweat, and the black blood of the creatures. My bare feet are caked with mud and grime. I'm a mess.
I look around. I'm in another one of the endless yellow corridors. They all look the same. The same stained wallpaper, the same flickering lights, the same damp, mildew-smelling carpet. The stranger was right. This place is quicksand. I could walk for days and end up right back where I started.
I start walking. There's nothing else to do. The shears feel heavy and solid in my hand, a small, sharp-edged piece of reality in this dream-like place. I'm not the same person who stumbled out of Floor 0. I've killed something. I've leveled up. I've a skill. I have a real weapon.
And I have a purpose.
The memory of my husband's face, the moonlight on the knife, the word 'sorry'—it's not a fresh wound anymore. It's a scar. A cold, hard knot of anger that sits in my chest, a constant, quiet companion. It's my anchor. My focus.
I walk.
And walk.
And walk.
The hours blur into a monotonous cycle of fluorescent hum and damp carpet. The corridor stretches on, an endless, suffocating tunnel. I pass closed doors, identical and uninviting. I see no one. The only sounds are my own footsteps and the ceaseless drone of the lights.
I feel a strange sense of dislocation, a dreamlike detachment from myself. I'm watching myself walk, a ghost haunting her own body. The stranger's words come back to me: "This place is bad to linger in. It makes you... forget."
Is that what's happening to me? Am I starting to forget? The details of my life before—the face of my husband, the feel of the sun on my skin, the taste of coffee—they're starting to feel distant, like memories of someone else's life.
No...
I-
I...
No!
It's without any thought, just a searing, sudden spike of painful anger. A shout. My hand slashes through the air. The shear's blade catches the inside of my palm. A sharp, clean pain. A line of red beads on my skin.
I stare at the cut. At the blood. The pain is a jolt of reality. A sharp, stinging reminder that I'm here. A reminder of who I am.
I am.
In this body. Not floating. Not wandering aimlessly.
"I. Am not forgetting." I say the words out loud, a raw, defiant whisper in the oppressive silence. "I will not forget."
I press my thumb against the cut, the sting a grounding, welcome sensation. I will use the pain. I will use the anger. I will use the cold, hard knot of it in my chest. I will not let this place take that from me. It's all I have left.
I continue walking, my steps more deliberate now, my grip tight on the shears. I'm not a ghost haunting her own body. I'm a survivor. A hunter. And I will not be prey.
The corridor begins to change. The yellow wallpaper fades, replaced by grimy, white tiles, like the walls of a public restroom long abandoned. The damp carpet gives way to cold, slick linoleum. The hum of the fluorescent lights grows louder, a high-pitched, piercing whine that grates against the nerves. The air grows colder, carrying the sharp, antiseptic smell of bleach and something else... something vaguely metallic, like old blood.
I pass a row of mirrors on the wall. I avoid looking at them. I don't want to see the stranger staring back at me. I don't want to see the victim. I don't want to see the person I used to be.
But I'm not given a choice.
When I turn the corner, there's a full length mirror right in front of me, cracked but still reflective. I try to turn my head away, to keep my gaze focused on the path ahead.
But a flicker of movement in the mirror catches my eye.
I freeze.
My reflection is not mimicking me.
It's standing perfectly still, its back to me, staring into the mirror's depths. Its long red hair is a tangled, dark mess, and it's wearing the same white sweater and long green skirt I am. But something is wrong. The posture. The stillness. It's not me.
I slowly turn to face the mirror.
My reflection turns with me.
But its movements are a fraction of a second too slow. A delayed, jerky echo. Its face is a pale, terrified mask, its eyes wide with a horror I don't feel. Its hands are clasped in front of it, trembling. It's the person I was when I first arrived in this place. The confused, scared victim.
It's been...
I don't know how long.
But it doesn't feel like it's been long. After all, I haven't slept yet, so it can't be much more than a day.
Yet I don't feel as if I am that person.
The scared woman staring at me, tearful. The woman who would have died in the greenhouse.
The woman who didn't even know the taste of her own blood.
I...
Don't want to be her anymore.
I raise the pruning shears, the blades glinting in the harsh fluorescent light. My reflection doesn't raise its shears. It just stares at me, its face a picture of terror.
"That. Will never be me. Again." I say the words out loud, a vow spoken to the ghost of my former self.
Her expression softens, and a hand reaches up toward me, placing on the glass.
The blood from my cut hand smudges on the metal.
There's still fear in her eyes.
And yet...this version of me. The 'me' that I...
That I. Can't. Be.
Won't be.
Ever again.
...Smiles at me. A sad, defeated smile.
And then she fades away into a dull metal that couldn't hope to reflect more than the florescent bulbs overhead.
I can't help but swallow as I stare at the space she was.
There's a knot in my chest. And I...
Don't have the words for it.