The Damsel

When Merrie was a child, she believed that whenever the world felt too heavy, a simple prayer could make all her worries vanish. She would close her eyes, fold her small hands, and whisper to the ceiling like it was listening.

But really—who has the heart to shatter a dreamer’s fantasies, if not the dreamer herself?

And so, like many others, she learned to embrace the truth the hard way—or perhaps the truth embraced her first, tightening its grip until she could no longer whisper even the words, Dear Lord. Was it fair? Yes. For she had no enemy but herself, and all is fair when one’s downfall is crafted by their own hands.

As usual, her day began with a knock.

Not that she meant to ignore it—she had simply grown accustomed to the company of her misery, letting it eat away at her piece by piece. The sound was faint, almost apologetic, as if whoever was on the other side already knew she wouldn’t answer.

“You have to eat, Merrie,” her mother called out.

The voice was muffled through the wood, but Merrie heard it clearly enough. Instead of answering, she only tightened her grip around her favorite blanket, the one with frayed edges and small holes where the fabric had given way after years of clutching it too tightly.

She had no plans to go outside—not after what happened. Not after what she did.

Not when a dreamer could no longer tell dream from reality. Not when she couldn’t even trust herself to know if she was awake… or still dreaming.

Her gaze dropped to her hands. She spread her fingers and counted them slowly. One, two, three, four, five. Again. One, two, three, four, five.

In a series she’d watched months ago, they said an extra finger would appear in a dream—and so it became her mark, her little ritual to ground herself. Not that she truly believed it, but she needed something, anything, to convince herself that she was awake.

“You do understand that it wasn’t your fault. It was no one’s,” her mother said through the door—her tone softer this time, as if she were afraid of waking something fragile.

Merrie didn’t answer. The only sound after that was the slow retreat of her mother’s footsteps.

Her eyelids grew heavy, dragging her down into the warm, treacherous pull of sleep. No. Not again.

She sat up sharply and slapped her cheek, the sting blooming against her skin. She mustn’t sleep. She couldn’t sleep.

How long had it been now? Three days? Four? No—probably a week. The hours had started melting together, each one feeling both endless and too short.

If she wanted to stay awake, she had to do something other than rot in her bed. She threw the blanket aside. The air felt colder without it.

After a week of silence and shadows, she finally opened her door.

“Mom,” she called, her voice rasping from disuse.

Her mother turned from the counter and smiled—a quick, practiced curve of the lips. “Go on, take a seat,” she said, already busying herself with preparing a meal.

Merrie hovered at the doorway but stepped inside when her stomach growled.

“How do you feel about going to school?” her mother asked casually, as though the idea was as simple as asking what she wanted for breakfast.

Merrie’s shoulders tensed. She lowered her head, staring at the floor. “I can’t.”

“Why?” There was the soft clink of ceramic as a plate was set in front of her.

“Is it because your sister died because of you?”

The words sliced through the kitchen air.

“W-what?” Merrie’s head snapped up. Confusion and disbelief swirled in her eyes—until she saw it.

Her mother was smiling. Wide. Eerie.

“Look at your sister,” she said, pointing at the plate. “Don’t you feel even a little guilty, you worthless brat?!”

Her breath caught. Slowly, she followed the trembling finger… and there, staring up at her from the plate, was her sister’s face. Pale. Unblinking.

“No!” Merrie’s voice cracked as she shoved herself back, knocking over the chair. The plate flew from the table, crashing onto the floor.

She was breathing hard when she looked up again.

Her mother’s smile was gone—replaced by a mask of worry.

Merrie’s gaze darted to the plate on the floor. Bacon and eggs scattered across the tiles. No face. No blood. Just breakfast.

It always happened like that—so often now that it no longer felt like a dream, but something worse.

When her sister died, they had turned to doctors for help. She had been given a name for it—several names, in fact. Borderline Personality Disorder. PTSD. Different doctors, different diagnoses.

But none of them could tell her why it kept happening.

“I… I should just stay in my room,” Merrie murmured, her voice shaking as she turned toward the hallway.

“Wait,” her mother’s voice stopped her mid-step. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Her pulse quickened.

Seated in their living room was a man in a neatly pressed long-sleeve shirt, the cuffs folded up to his elbows, and black slacks. His hair was combed back in deliberate precision, and a warm smile was fixed on his face—though it never quite reached his eyes.

A professional. Through and through.

“A pleasant day, Merrie. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” he said smoothly. “I’ve read through your files from your previous psychiatrists.”

Merrie stared at him, the muscles in her face still. Her first thought wasn’t about what he might say—it was whether it was even legal to share her documents between doctors without her permission.

“And based on this—” he began, but she cut him off.

“What is it this time?” she asked sharply. “Delirium? Maybe schizophrenia? You can just leave the medications. Better yet, give me something to keep me from sleeping.”

“Merrie Sefanie Alejandro!” her mother’s voice cracked like a whip beside her. She was glaring—hard, unblinking, like a bull about to charge. The weight of it pinned Merrie in place, stopping the words in her throat.

“I apologize, Doctor,” her mother said.

The man chuckled, a low, almost rehearsed sound. “It’s alright, Mrs. Alejandro. Most people get it wrong the first time—I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”

Turning back to Merrie, his smile lingered, but his eyes remained cold. “I’m Dr. Cassian Jomer, but you can call me Jom. I’m a sleep analyst.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You and I are going to talk about your dreams, Merrie. And maybe, by the end of it, you’ll finally be able to tell which world you’re in.”

For a moment, she thought she saw movement in his pupils—like a reflection.

She blinked, and it was gone.

But in that split second, she could have sworn she saw herself.

Sleeping.