Do Not Open

by Kiersten Modglin

I’ll stop mentally rambling now. That’s the burden of being a writer, truly. We spend so much time in our heads, we rarely experience the world outside of it. Not in the same way other people do.

That’s the burden of being a writer, truly. We spend so much time in our heads, we rarely experience the world outside of it. Not in the same way other people do.

square my shoulders toward the front door, aware I’m likely being watched right now from somewhere inside the house. Then again, maybe not. Not everyone is as bored and paranoid as I am.

Suddenly, there’s a sharp ache in the back of my head. I no longer feel electric. Instead, I feel as if I’m static. The buzzing in me has begun to dull. I take another drink, trying to bring myself back. This is not the time to lose it. I need to be here. Be present. I’ve never felt this way, like my nerves are pulling me down. Like I’m sinking. I place the glass on the island, terrified I’ll drop it. I picture the glass shattering around my feet in slow motion. “Mari? Is everything alright?” He says the words, but there’s no emotion in his voice. I can barely hear him. What’s happening? I put a hand to my chest, searching for my heartbeat as the room begins to spin. I feel drunk—though I haven’t had nearly enough to drink—and like I’m having a panic attack all at once. “I don’t… I’m so sorry. I don’t feel so well.” “Maybe you should sit down.” He takes hold of my arm, but it’s too late. I feel myself slipping. And then, before I know what’s happening, everything—him, me, the house—it all disappears. There is only black.

When I open my eyes, the world is fuzzy and unfamiliar. I’m not sure where I am or why I’m here. My head is heavy and throbbing, like I’ve had too much to drink, and my throat feels like sandpaper.

Panic washes over me like a tidal wave. A sharp, gravitational pull of terror.

It’s such a strange thing. On the one hand, I’m freaking out and terrified about what’s happening, but on the other, nothing is actually happening, and I don’t want to cause a scene or more embarrassment to myself by not complying.

I refuse to share any of those memories with this monster. Those are mine. They belong to me.

I realize how completely and utterly alone I am, tears begin to fall, and I wish more than anything else to wake up from this nightmare.

I feel my adrenaline crashing. My body begins to shake with sobs I can’t feel. I can’t breathe. My heart is beating too fast.

I understand now why people lose their minds when left alone for too long, particularly when your mind isn’t a safe space to begin with.

To know, for once, that he’s having to deal with the consequences of his actions is oddly satisfying.

Or will my death and disappearance be the start of my rise to fame? Like those artists who become popular—more admired, worth more—just after their deaths. Like van Gogh and Sylvia Plath. People who were never appreciated during their life and will never know the peak of their success or the sheer number of people their work has reached. It’s a devastating possibility.

I’m being squeezed to death by an invisible force. The force doesn’t exist. I know this somewhere in my rational mind, but that portion of myself feels long gone. I’m full-on lizard brain at this moment. I can’t breathe, can’t physically fill my lungs. I’m shaking as if I’m cold, but I’m not. I’m burning up. Sweat drips from every surface of my body, and I’m dizzy and nauseous. I could throw up right now, and if he takes one more curve as fast as the last one, I just might. My chest is heavy and painful. There’s a brick taking residence inside of it.

I swallow. If I’d never opened that email, if I’d trusted my gut in thinking it was too good to be true, I wouldn’t be here. That’s the cold, hard truth. Curiosity killed the cat, and in the end, it’s what will have killed me, too.

I want to write. The thought hits me like a brick wall. All my life, writing has been an escape. It’s been the way I’ve dealt with my feelings, faced my fears, survived my life. The day I lost Declan and Liam, it felt like it was taken away from me. It felt like, How can I write, how can I do the thing I love most, when they’re gone? How is that fair?

I can’t breathe. Can’t think. I’ve been torn apart.

How is it possible to hurt so badly and feel nothing at all? I’m numb, and yet my body is on fire. Whole, yet scattered. My head throbs. My arm is somewhere underneath me, bent at an angle that isn’t natural. I can’t feel my legs. My stomach feels ready to combust.

I’m fading. Nothing makes sense. They’re still talking, but I can’t find the focus to hear them. My world is being muffled with white noise. I’m sinking. Sinking. Sinking. The pain that once existed is gone. I feel lighter than air. As if I’m gone, but not. Here, but not.

Bile rises in my throat as I begin to fade out. “Mari? Mari, stay with me, okay? Please stay awake.” Kassara pats my cheek frantically, but it’s no use. I want to stay, but I can’t. I welcome the darkness this time as it swallows me, knowing anything is better than this. Even death.

I welcome the darkness this time as it swallows me, knowing anything is better than this. Even death.

I’m jolted back from my memories, more painful than any reality,

We’ll never understand Liam’s actions that day, but we have had to live with the consequences.

To Chris, and perhaps to everyone else, he seems sure of himself, but I know him better than I know myself. I can see the pure terror in his eyes.

Some days are harder than others. I wish I could say this experience healed me, made me realize how special and precious life is, and that I’m traveling the world and telling my story to help heal the masses now, but it would be a lie. More fictional than any of my novels. Most days, it’s hard to get out of bed. But I do.

I’ll never understand why he did, and I’ll both hate and love him every day for the rest of my life because of it. That’s my burden—loving someone capable of monstrous things.

I’m trying to move past it. Not move on, because that’s impossible. Just move forward.