It wasn’t like falling. It was like sinking, my body dragged through thick, cold air that clung to my skin. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. I felt stretched, unraveled, like I wasn’t supposed to exist anymore.
When I woke up, I was standing in my living room.
But it wasn’t my living room.
The furniture was the same, but the photos on the wall were different. Not him. Not me.
Her.
The woman with my face.
She was everywhere — smiling, laughing, living. A life I didn’t recognize. A life that wasn’t mine.
I heard footsteps behind me.
He was there, watching me from the hallway. But his face wasn’t mine anymore. It was something else. Something worse.
Too many eyes. Too many teeth. The smile was still there, but it wasn’t human. It never was.
“You’re late,” he said, voice thick and distorted. “She’s been waiting for you.”
I turned back to the photos. In one of them, she wasn’t smiling anymore. She was looking at me.
No… not me. Behind me.
I didn’t want to turn around.
But I did.
And she was standing there.
Not the woman from the photos. Not the woman with my face.
The real her.
Or what was left of her.
“Why did you let him take me?” she whispered.
Her face twisted, skin sagging in ways that shouldn’t be possible. Her eyes were hollow, blackened pits.
The Stranger Who Wore My Face 14