…and the man claiming to be my dad.
I stared at the wadded tissue, my pulse hammering against my ribs. If neither of them had left it, who did? I crawled toward the small desk in the corner of my room, my eyes frantically darting over objects I hadn’t seen in half a year. I yanked open the drawer and pulled out an old journal from before the crash.
I held the crumpled tissue next to one of my old entries. The loops of the ‘y’, the sharp cross of the ‘t’—they matched perfectly.
I had written this.
But when? And why didn’t I remember?
The heavy thud of footsteps echoing in the hallway snapped me out of my panic. Mom. Or, at least, the woman who had been spoon-feeding me and brushing my hair for the last six months.
I shoved the tissue into my pocket, scrambled back into bed, and forced my eyes to unfocus, staring blankly at the wall just as the door creaked open.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” a sickly sweet voice chirped.
I turned my head toward the sound, keeping my gaze perfectly empty. For the first time since the accident, I saw the woman standing in my doorway. My breath caught in my throat, threatening to choke me.
She was wearing my mother’s favorite yellow cardigan. She was wearing my mother’s signature jasmine perfume.
But the face staring back at me wasn’t my mother’s.
It was a stranger. A woman with sharp, hollow cheekbones and dead, unblinking eyes.
“I brought your morning tea,” the imposter said, stepping closer. I forced myself not to flinch as she set the tray on my nightstand. As she turned slightly to adjust a curtain, I glanced down at the tea. The liquid was murky, swirling with a faint, chalky white powder that hadn’t fully dissolved.
Memory-altering drugs. The realization hit me like a physical blow. That’s why my memory was full of holes. That’s why I didn’t remember writing the note. My sight must have temporarily returned before, and I had discovered the truth, only for them to drug me and reset the clock.
“Drink up, darling. It will help with the headaches,” the woman said, holding the warm mug to my lips.
I reached out, intentionally missing the handle by an inch to sell the performance, before grasping it. “Thank you, Mom,” I whispered, the word tasting like ash.
I brought the mug to my mouth, faking a long gulp while letting the bitter liquid spill down the front of my shirt.
“Oh, you clumsy thing,” she sighed, though her eyes were cold. “I’ll go get a towel. Don’t move.”
The second she stepped out of the room, I spat the rest of the tea into the potted fern by my bed. I had to get out. I didn’t know where my real parents were, or why these people had taken me, but I knew one thing for certain: if I let them realize I could see, I wouldn’t survive the night.
I carefully swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The villa was silent, save for the wind howling against the windowpanes. I slipped into the hallway, moving with the agonizing slowness of the blind, just in case they were watching.
I crept down the unfamiliar, winding stairs, my eyes absorbing the horrifying details of my prison. There were no family photos. The doors were heavily padlocked from the inside. As I reached the ground floor, I heard a man’s voice—the man I had been calling ‘Dad’—muffled behind the heavy oak door of the study.
“The transfer goes through on her eighteenth birthday tomorrow,” the man was saying on the phone. “Once the trust is drained, we get rid of the girl. Frame it as a tragic complication from the crash.”
A cold sweat broke out over my skin. Tomorrow. I had less than twenty-four hours.
I backed away from the door, my mind racing. I couldn’t just run blindly into the surrounding woods; I didn’t even know what state we were in. I needed keys. I needed a weapon.
I slipped into the kitchen, my eyes landing on the heavy block of chef’s knives on the counter. I pulled the longest one free, its polished steel gleaming in the dim light. I hid it flush against my forearm, sliding the sleeve of my oversized sweater over the hilt.
“What are you doing out of bed?”
I froze. The imposter mother was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a damp towel in her hands. Her eyes were narrowed, scanning my posture.
I didn’t turn to look at her. I kept my gaze fixed on the empty air directly in front of me, letting my shoulders slump.
“I got lost,” I whimpered, letting my voice tremble. “I spilled the tea, and I felt so sticky… I was trying to find the bathroom, but I got turned around. It’s so dark, Mom. I’m scared.”
There was a terrifyingly long pause. She stepped closer, her footsteps practically silent. She stopped inches from my face. I could feel her breath on my cheek. Suddenly, she raised her hand and violently slashed her fingers mere millimeters from my open eyes.
I didn’t blink. I didn’t breathe.
Slowly, the tension left her shoulders. “Oh, my poor sweet girl,” she cooed, taking my free hand—the one not gripping the knife—and gently turning me around. “You’re safe with us. Let’s get you back upstairs.”
“Okay,” I whispered, letting her guide me toward the steps.
As I walked beside the woman who planned to kill me tomorrow, I tightened my grip on the handle hidden up my sleeve. My world had been dark for six months, but as I looked at the padlocked front door and calculated the distance to freedom, everything was finally crystal clear.
They thought I was their blind, helpless victim. They were about to find out exactly what I was capable of when my eyes were wide open.
