Fuck.
This is not good.
I shove the phone in my pocket before I break it enough that it’s unusable and fight to stabilize my breathing as panic threatens to overtake me.
It was only a thought.
I didn’t actually hurt someone.
I’m not a monster.
I’m not a monster.
I’m. Not. A. Monster.
Slumping down on a nearby log, I rest my face in my hands, my mask almost painfully cold against my palms in the frosty winter air. It’s dangerous for me to let my guard down like this, especially with Ada and Henry not too far away, but I can’t find the strength to stand back up.
Should I give up?
Is this corruption, this sickness of my entire being, too far to come back from?
I’m losing myself to this new form. Wouldn’t it be easier to stop fighting? Nothing I’ve done has made a difference.
I’m scared, and I’m tired of fighting this darkness with no end or light in sight.
It’s that final thought that has me stirring, removing my face from my hand as an aching sadness builds in my chest. Not for myself. For Ada.
We’re the same.
That should’ve been clear to me when I literally started to turn into a creature of her making, her mind so closely linked with mine. There’s so much anger and resentment inside me that it’s difficult to consider anything beyond it.
But here, on the verge of tears—if I could shed them anymore—I understand.
When darkness surrounds you, finding the light feels impossible.
Ada is trapped by her mind as much as I am. If I give up, she’ll lose herself too.
And I may be many things, but as I’ve reminded myself countless times, the words becoming a mantra, I’m not a monster.
I won’t give up. Ican’tgive up. Ada needs me. Her nightmare has to be her savior, because no one else is coming for her.
Brushing off the dusting of snow on my thighs and shoulders, I stand and let out a resolute exhale and assess the situation.
The lights didn’t work as I’d hoped. It’s a setback, but that might have more to do with Ada’s anger at Tom—who I recall now is the unremarkable neighbor who drops off groceries for her sometimes—than the lights themselves.
She seems to enjoy theholiday quotes I programmed for her. Her dreams that’ve been less horrific have featured Christmas.
Yes. That must be it. If she knows her secret Santa isn’t this neighbor she clearly dislikes, then she might be able to enjoy my efforts.
Some of the crushing weight on my chest eases.
The issue has to be Tom, which means that in order for operation “cheer Ada up and stop being a terrifying nightmare” to proceed, I need to make it clear that he’s not the one bringing her holiday cheer.
I could text her again, but she could think I’m Tom and that I’m lying to her. That’s the logical explanation.
I need to send a message that leaves no room for misunderstandings.
In the past, I would’ve had no problems quickly conjuring a whimsical, cheery idea to suit my needs, but now I have to struggle past all the dark ones that rise to the surface.
