Prisoner

Screams—piercing, terrified—split the air. I clamp my eyes shut, too afraid to look. “Rose!” My mother’s voice shatters the night.

My eyes fly open. Horror seizes me. Gravel crunches beneath my knees as I collapse, and only then do I notice Mom’s red Jeep on its side in the barren field. The headlights flicker weakly against the dark.

“Mom?!” My voice cracks as I stumble forward. The March wind claws at my skin, carrying the copper sting of blood.

Through the blur of officers, I see her—sprawled face-up in the grass. Her hair is matted with blood, half her face hidden beneath it.

“Mom?” My knees give way, and I fall beside her.

My hands tangle in her hair as I shake her. Nothing. Blood seeps from the gashes in her head, hot and slick against my fingers.

“Rose!” Her scream echoes again, but her lips don’t move.

My heart slams against my ribs. Her eyes snap open, glassy and unblinking, her mouth frozen shut. I stumble back, shrieking, tears burning down my face. The faint scent of lilies drifts through the air, a jarring, surreal note amid the horror. For a brief moment, the world holds its breath, the silence pressing in like a heavy blanket. My heart races, disoriented, as if the dream itself is tugging me deeper. That scent is its calling card, the signal that blurs reality.

A pounding at my bedroom door jolts me awake.

“Rose, get up. We have to go,” Sam calls, impatient.

Sweat trickles down my temple; I swipe it away.

“I’m not going!” I snap, dragging the covers over my head.

“Catherine’s going to be mad,” she sighs. A door slams down the hall—she knows better than to push.

Sam’s already in college, living the life I was supposed to have. I should’ve graduated with her, but when Mom died I couldn’t bring myself to care about school. The grief hollowed me out, and the assignments piled up untouched. Now she moves forward while I’m stuck here, one year behind, drowning in everything I lost.

I groan, trying to shake the dream, but its images cling like shadows. Blinking back tears, I shove myself out of bed and shuffle across the purple carpet to my desk. My fingers twist the silver locket at my throat, its cool weight a small anchor in the storm of my thoughts. Dropping into my chair, I flip open my laptop. My phone buzzes: twelve unread texts. Only one matters—Jess.

Please tell me you’re up. 7:29 a.m.

Yeah, I’m up now. Can’t remember much from last night, I type back.

The laptop screen hums to life. I scroll through Spotify, searching for anything that could even touch what I’m feeling.

“Finally,” I mutter, clicking on one of my current favorite bands.

My phone vibrates again. Jess is calling.

“Hello?”

“Last night was crazy,” she chirps. Behind her voice I hear the bustle of students.

“I barely remember. Just that we were with Jane, doing shots, then I blacked out.”

The bitter taste of tequila rises in my throat, dragging memories with it: blurred vision, trembling hands clutching the glass, my jaw clenching so tight my teeth ached. Anxiety had locked itself into my chest. As Jess’s words about the pictures sink in, shame rises within me like a slow-burning fire, spreading heat across my face and neck. Even now the taste lingers, a sour ghost, while fractured images hover just out of reach.

“Maybe it was around eleven,” I murmur, rubbing my temples as a headache flares.

“Oh my god.” She hesitates. “You don’t remember the pictures?”

My chest tightens. “What pictures?”

“Dave…” her voice falters. “He took pictures of you. Topless.”

The floor drops out beneath me. My vision blurs as panic races through me. How? Why? I know he doesn’t like me, but this? A flash cuts through my mind—the blinding pop of a camera, chaos swirling around me, and me standing there, helpless, exposed.

“What the fuck, Jess!” Rage shakes my voice, but nothing more comes out.

“You were wasted. I tried to stop you, but you wouldn’t listen,” she blurts. Someone calls her name on the other end.

I press my forehead to the desk, nausea twisting with the pounding in my skull. “I know it’s not your fault. I’m just… fucking mad.”

The silence is suffocating.

“How many people have seen them?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Jess, just tell me.” I close my eyes, praying this is still part of the dream.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “But you know how guys are.”

“Great. Now everyone’s going to think I’m some slut.” I bang my head against the desk—once, twice, three times.

“No one thinks that. You were drunk,” she says softly, but her words slide right off the panic twisting inside me.

“You’re not coming to school, are you?” she sighs. I know we had a report due, but the thought of walking into those halls, of everyone knowing—it’s unbearable.

The bell rings through her phone. “I have to go. Feel better, okay? I’ll see you tonight?”

“Yeah. Nine.”

“Okay. See ya.”

When the call ends, I drag myself to the closet, pull on black sweatpants and a purple sweater, and head to the bathroom. The light flickers before settling. I strip down, catching my reflection: tangled black-and-pink hair, smudged makeup, hollow eyes. My ribs jut sharper than ever. Disgust claws at me. I turn away and step into the shower.

Hot water scalds down my skin, washing away the stink of last night. For a moment, I almost feel human again.

By noon, hunger forces me downstairs. Catherine’s in the kitchen, eyes glued to the news.

“Didn’t feel like school? Too much partying?” she asks without looking up.

“I’m sick,” I mutter, grabbing milk.

She chuckles. “Sam already told me. She’s worried. I am too. You’ve been getting worse, Rose. Maybe talk to someone?”

“I’m fine,” I sigh.

“Well, if you change your mind…”

Her voice trails off as a grim headline scrolls across the screen.

“Another murder? God… it’s getting close.”

“Yeah. Just a few towns over.” A chill runs through me, dragging back the dream: the woman in the field, the anguish in her eyes. And the lilies—once comforting—now taunt me, a cruel reminder of what I’ve lost.

“I don’t want you out late anymore. I’m not taking chances.”

“Alright,” I lie, my stomach knotting tighter, as if I’ve agreed not just with Catherine’s words but with the dread curling around my heart.

“I just want you safe. Your mom would want that too.”

The ache in my chest deepens. I clutch the silver locket at my throat, its cool metal warming in my palm. I think back to that day, so ordinary until the knock at the door. Sam crying. The officers explained: slick roads, an animal, a Jeep overturned at sixty miles per hour. Instant death.

Mom had given us these lockets on our birthday—mine and Sam’s, twins.

“You okay?” Catherine’s voice breaks through.

“Yeah. Fine.” I retreat upstairs with my cereal.

Alone, I collapse onto my bed. Tears blur my vision as I clutch the last photo of us: Mom, smiling though tired, with me on her lap. Dad standing beside us, holding Sam proudly, even while she cried because I’d smacked her.

Dad had died when we were seven, colon cancer. My last memory: him bedridden, fading. I didn’t understand that it would be the last time.

A perfect, imperfect family. The last picture before everything fell apart.

I close my eyes. Tears slip free. Sleep drags me under.