They had called me Doc. They knew I was a doctor.Damnit, it is way too early, and I am way too fucking sleep deprived for a riddle like this.
I toss my phone face down and roll over, burying my face in the cool softness of my pillow. I run through the plausibility of some stalker out here, miles from town, watching me from… where? The forest? The tree line was nearly a quarter of a mile away. Impossible to see clearly without binoculars or a telescope.
Somehow, convincing myself that this is all just another one of my bad dreams, I’m able to fall back into a light and fitful sleep.
I jolt awake again a little while later and remember the texts. I yank my phone off the charger and seize my glasses from the nightstand as well, jamming them onto my face. There they still were—the texts from an unknown number.
Not a dream.I exit out of the text thread and immediately pull up Bea’s.
Me
Hey B, you didn’t text me this morning at like 12am from an unknown number, did you?
Bea
…. No?? Why?
Fuck my life. I pause, trying to carefully choose my words.
Me
No reason, I just got kind of a weird text and it made me think of you.
Bea
Made you think of me how? Kitty Kat, are you all good? You’re worrying me just a little bit here.
Oh, I’m worrying myself too, I thought.
Me
Please, no worries, B, all good, I just need to be getting more sleep than I am.
Bea
Have you tried Ambien?
Hah.Not yet.
I had lost count of how many mornings in a row I had awoken pre-dawn. No matter how much wine I drank the night before, I just couldn’t manage to stay in deep sleep. And the sleep I did get was fitful and riddled with nightmares, flashbacks, memories. Insomnia and early morning waking were classic somatic symptoms of major depressive disorder. I knew that. Didn’t change anything.
I am still numbly, blearily making my way through my days, and occasionally imagining that my house is haunted while endorsing some passive suicidal ideation. I had bought aguard catfor crying out loud. If I didn’t meet the criteria for at least one serious mental health diagnosis by this point, I’ll eat Bundy.
I roll over and swing my legs off the bed. Time to face the day. I roll my neck and enter the en suite bathroom to splash some water on my face. I look at my expression in the mirror and furrow my brows a bit at what I see staring back at me. My fair complexion is still clear but seems duller; like it had less radiance than the last time I really noticed it. My dark eyes and thick, ebony lashes are framed underneath by two very dark blueish-purple shadows.Jesus.Those definitely weren’t there the last time I looked at myself.
I gently tousle my long raven waves forward and over my shoulders. Even my hair seems less glossy and dimensional than usual. I make a mental note to stop by a beauty store on my way home from the office this evening and invest in a good under eye cream. And concealer. And hair mask. Hell, I should probably just walk in the door and scream, “PLEASE FIX ME.”
I stifle down a mad little laugh that threatens to erupt from the back of my throat. Rolling my neck again, I reach for the pill bottle on the counter and drop two of the little white round pills into my palm. The tiny, imprinted number 10 faces upward at me, taunting me. Hesitating just a moment, I toss them both into my mouth and swallow them dry. Glancing briefly up at my reflection again in the mirror, I shuffle across the cool tile floor to turn on the shower.
Time for another day of pretending I wasn’t going crazy.
6
WATCHER
ZAYN
She was going crazy.
