I don’t know what’s going on with me.

But I try not to think about it.

I haven’t seen John since that one… strange day. I asked his teachers, and apparently he’s coming to classes again. I think I hurt myself while I was unconscious, because there’s a bandage on my lower torso, but I haven’t had any more blackouts or weird dreams since.

Which, I guess, wraps the whole thing up.

Eventually, everyone who knew Sam will learn to live without him, and everything will return to a near-normal. John and I will part ways again, with me still carrying my anger and resentment on my burdened back. But John… I can’t tell anymore. Is he actually neck-deep in a torrent of grief and guilt, or is he just…

“It’s embarrassing.”

…

It still doesn’t make sense.

None of it.

But my thoughts are suddenly interrupted as, having been absorbed in my thoughts, I fail to notice a person walking in front of me and…

The next thing I know, I’m on the floor, surrounded by my books and materials. Shit. My class is about to start, how am I going to—

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there; do you need help?”

I look up, and a pretty young woman, probably about my age, looks back. Her dark brown hair sticks up in a messy high bun and her hazel-green eyes return my gaze with a soft kindness.

I just nod.

“That would be really great, thanks.”

She stoops down and deftly begins to rearrange my things and hand them back to me, even as I try to keep up. Within seconds, I’m all set.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Hey, no problem.”

She’s only just begun to walk away when something seizes the pit of my stomach: a feeling, unquantifiable, a dark thing I can’t quite explain.

“Uh, excuse me.”

She turns around. “Yeah?”

“What’s your name?”

She seems a little confused. Makes sense, I think. She must think I’m hitting on her or something. But then her expression clears up, which I assume means she’s decided my intentions are honourable.

“Susan. Susan Wren.”

She smiles at me, and leaves.

I don’t move.

Something is moving inside me, like black, slimy tentacles strangling my heart. My brain turns red, then my eyes, then my body, then the world.

It hurts.

Why does it hurt?

Why does it sting?

Another second, a blink of an eye, and I’m back where I was— normal colour has been restored. Though, there’s a strange taste on my tongue.

I put my fingers to my lips and look at them.

Blood.

I must’ve been biting my lip without even realizing it. I guess that’s where the pain came from.

But that same voice from before tells me:

No

That’s not where

Moving on, I choose to ignore it.

****

Back in my dorm, I wonder.

Should I pick up the phone?

There’s no caller ID, so it’s probably a wrong number or some kind of scam.

But then again… maybe not.

Pushing back my indecision, I pick it up.

“YOU’VE WON! SEND YOUR DETAILS TO THIS NUMBER AND—”

Beep.

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Sighing, I sink back into my chair. I look at the clock. 10:02. Looks like I’m not getting any further in solving this mystery today. Or is there even any mystery…? Is it all in my—

RING RING RING

Again! God, what—

I shouldn’t pick up, but I do, because I’m angry and I need to yell but before I can:

“I DIDN’T TELL YOU WHAT YOU’D WON.”

My fingers grip the phone tighter. The voice, I notice now, is distorted and deep, so even if I knew the speaker I wouldn’t be able to recognize them. It’s no longer the cheery tone from before, either— it’s dark and menacing.

“Who— who are you?”

The voice shifts to a brighter tone, which is somehow far more unnerving than the threatening one.

“THE MOST IMPORTANT QUESTION IS, WHO ARE YOU? ARE YOU MY FRIEND? OR ARE YOU JUST IN THE WAY?”

The last sentence doesn’t come out so cheery.

“I—”

Then, sobbing. He’s… crying?

“OH, I’M SORRY, WHOEVER YOU ARE. IT WAS MY FAULT. IT WAS ALL MY FAULT, BUT I’LL MAKE IT RIGHT THIS TIME. AND YOU CAN HELP ME!”

Uh… okay. What’s he talking about?

“Help… you? Look, I don’t want to get involved in this. Why would I help you, whatever you’re doing?”

The voice laughs, a gurgling, sickening laugh. It chills me to the bone.

“AREN’T YOU GOING TO ASK ME WHAT YOU WON?”

I hesitate. What’s the right thing to say?

“I’LL HANG UP IF YOU DON’T.”

“All right, what did I win?”

“YOU’VE GOT A BAD INJURY, DON’T YOU?  MAYBE YOU SHOULD GET THAT LOOKED AT.”

(click)

…what the fuck?

Without realizing it, my hand slips towards the bandaged area on my torso.

Injury.

As I rush to the bathroom, I ask myself, how did I not think to check? I assumed it was just a cut, but—

And then I’m looking back at myself.

I don’t look away from the bathroom mirror even as I pull up my shirt and reveal the bandage. Slowly, bit by bit, I peel it off…

A separation in the flesh, crudely held together by stitches, runs the whole width of the bandage.

I recognize it immediately.

It’s a surgical scar.

A big one.