The voice returned.
That voice.
That fucking voice.
It didn't need to scream. It didn't need to strike me. It didn't need to exist loudly. It insinuated itself. Softly. Smoothly. A whisper in iced sugar, in slicing silk, that sank into my neck like a blade into a still-warm wound. It wasn't strong. It was surgical.
— Pathetic. As always. You're not enough.
It hadn't changed. No emotion. No surprise. Just that icy certainty. As if my fall wasn't a tragedy. But a logical outcome. A failure expected.
— I told you to let me handle it.
And that's when the shiver climbed. From the base of my spine to my teeth. Slowly. Like a needle, like a screw. A creaking sound came with it. Not around me. But inside me. A laugh. A laugh coming from within. A laugh that had no throat. No breath. A dry laugh. Bony. A laugh with no saliva. No lips. An idol's laugh. A thing's laugh.
I screamed.
