Chapter 13Mirrors of Darkness
Mirrors of Darkness
Isabella
The night wraps around me like a damp, heavy blanket, the air thick with the earthy scent of rain yet to fall, mingling with the faintest trace of gasoline.
It’s the kind of night where everything feels soaked, not just the pavement, but the very atmosphere itself, as if the world is holding its breath.
The streets are slick, gleaming under the pale, flickering glow of streetlamps that struggle to pierce the inky darkness.
The sky overhead is an unbroken sheet of deep indigo, heavy clouds hanging low, threatening but not quite delivering the storm.
The quiet is oppressive, broken only by the soft rhythm of my footsteps, muted by the wet ground, and the occasional hiss of a car passing through the misty air.
The temperature has dropped, but it’s not the sharp cold of winter, it’s a damp chill that seeps into your bones, settling deep.
A low fog rolls in from the outskirts of the town, curling around the corners of buildings and clinging to the edges of the road like it’s afraid to let go.
I rub my temples, exhaustion clinging to my bones, but my mind won’t settle. The words of my John patient still echo in my head. Another overdose case, another half-delirious man spouting paranoia, yet something about him felt... different.
I shake it off. I’m too tired for conspiracy theories.
The drive home is muscle memory, left at the old gas station, right past the diner that never closes. By the time I pull up to the driveway, my hands are trembling, and I don’t know if it’s the lack of sleep or the fact that the Prozac has worn off.
I unlock the door and step inside. The house is dimly lit, but I can tell someone’s still awake. A faint glow spills from the kitchen, and the sound of a spoon clinking against ceramic reaches me before I see her.
Ada sits at the counter, a mug of tea in front of her, hair pulled into a loose knot. Her eyes flick to me immediately, sharp and observant even in the low light.
“Didn’t think you’d be back this late,” she says, her voice quiet but steady.
“Double shift.” I drop my keys onto the counter with a clatter, rolling my shoulders. It’s better we don’t always work the same shifts together. The tension there feels permanent now, like I was carved from stone and forgot how to be anything else.
Ada watches me carefully, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
She doesn’t smile. She’s studying me, the way she always does when she thinks I’m slipping through her fingers. We’ve had this same conversation before, a hundred times in different variations. It always ends the same.
“You eating?” she asks.
“I’ll eat later.”
That’s a lie, and we both know it.
I head toward the bathroom, desperate to wash off the smell of antiseptic and sweat clinging to my skin, but before I can take another step, her voice stops me.
“What happened tonight?”
I pause, one hand gripping the doorframe. “Nothing unusual.”
Another lie.
Ada exhales slowly, setting her mug down. “You ever get tired of saying that?”
I turn back to her. “Saying what?”
“That everything’s fine when it’s not.”
She’s staring at me like she already knows the answer. Like she already knows that the cracks in my foundation are widening, that the weight of everything is pressing down harder than usual.
I should tell her. I should sit down and tell her about John, about the way his hands shook, about the way his eyes darted to the door like he was expecting death to walk through it at any second.
But what’s the point? She’d only tell me to let it go.
That it’s not my job to carry other people’s demons.
So instead, I force a smirk. “I don’t get tired of it, no.”
Ada’s lips press into a thin line. She doesn’t like my answer, but she also doesn’t argue. That’s the thing about her; she knows when to push, and she knows when to let me destroy myself in peace.
I step away from the doorway and walk to the kitchen instead. Open the cabinet above the sink. Reach for the orange bottle tucked neatly behind a box of herbal teas.
Ada watches. Of course, she does.
“You still on those?” Her voice is softer now, but there’s an edge beneath it.
I pop the lid off the Prozac bottle, shake out a single pill. “Still on them? Ada, I’d be dead without them.”
She doesn’t laugh. I swallow the pill dry, let the bitterness coat my tongue.
“You don’t have to do that in front of me,” she says after a long silence.
“Do what?”
“Pretend you’re so tough.”
I don’t answer her. Not because I don’t have words, but because I don’t trust myself to say them without breaking. Instead, I just press the pill bottle back into the cabinet and shut the door a little too hard.
Ada doesn’t flinch. She just watches me, her fingers still wrapped around her mug like she’s waiting for me to say something real. Something that isn’t a deflection.
I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest like it might hold me together. “I just need to sleep,” I mutter.
She doesn’t look convinced, but she nods anyway, letting me have the lie.
I push away from the counter, my body feeling heavier with every step as I make my way upstairs.
The walls feel too close, the air too thick.
By the time I reach my bedroom, my skin is clammy, a cold sweat prickling at the back of my neck.
The nausea creeps up fast, a sickly wave rolling through my stomach.
I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m on my knees, heaving into the toilet.
The nausea comes in violent waves, my stomach twisting as my body rejects everything inside it. My hands clutch the cold porcelain, my forehead pressed to my arm, sweat dripping down the back of my neck. My breaths come out ragged, uneven, and for a moment, I feel like I might pass out.
Behind me, the floor creaks. Ada.
She doesn’t say anything at first. Just the soft sound of her footsteps, the quiet turn of the faucet. A second later, a cool, damp washcloth presses against the back of my neck.
“Breathe,” she murmurs. “You’re okay.”
I shake my head weakly, eyes squeezing shut. “I hate this,” I whisper, my voice raw.
Ada crouches beside me, her tone gentle but firm. “It’s the meds.”
“I know,” I rasp, trying to steady my breathing, but the nausea lingers, cruel and unrelenting. “It never stops. Either I take them and feel like this, or I don’t, and everything falls apart.”
Ada doesn’t answer right away. She just sits back on her heels, watching me, considering. Then, carefully, she says, “Maybe your dose is too high.”
I blink, lifting my head slightly.
“You should talk to your psychiatrist,” she continues. “There’s no reason to be suffering like this. A lower dose might help.”
I close my eyes, the weight of her words settling over me. I don’t want to admit she might be right. That maybe this isn’t just something I have to endure. That maybe there’s a way out of this that doesn’t mean choosing between numbness and sickness.
“I’ll think about it,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper.
A beat of silence stretches between us. Then, quietly, she says, “Do you want me to stay?”
I hesitate. Then, finally, I nod.
Ada helps me to my feet, steadying me with a hand on my arm as I rinse my mouth out at the sink. I feel hollowed out, the nausea leaving behind a dull ache in its place. She doesn’t say anything as she leads me back to my bedroom, but she doesn’t have to. Her presence is enough.
The sheets are cool against my overheated skin as I slip under the covers, and a few minutes later, Ada returns with a bowl of soup.
She doesn’t force me to eat, just sets it in my hands and climbs in beside me, tucking herself under the blankets.
The soft glow of the bedside lamp makes the room feel smaller, quieter, like it’s just us and nothing else.
For a while, neither of us speak. The soup is warm in my hands, but I only take a few small sips before resting the bowl against my stomach. Ada watches me, her eyes dark with something I can’t quite place.
Then, her voice cuts through the silence. “Who was that man that arrested Aslanov?”
I blink, caught off guard. His name causes a fire within my veins.
Ada keeps her gaze steady. “Did you know him?”
I hesitate, my grip tightening around the bowl. “Why are you asking?”
“Because he knew you,” she says simply. “I saw the way he looked at you.”
A knot forms in my stomach. My appetite is gone.
I lower the bowl to the nightstand and sink deeper into the pillows, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me. “His name’s Nick.”
Ada doesn’t react right away, but I know her well enough to see the gears turning in her head. “And?”
I let out a slow breath, staring at the ceiling. “And it’s complicated, I don’t know much.”
She scoffs softly. “It always is with you.”
I huff out something that might’ve been a laugh if I wasn’t so damn tired. “We worked together. A long time ago.”
Ada stays quiet for a long moment, watching me like she’s waiting for the cracks to show. Like if she’s patient enough, she’ll finally get the whole truth out of me.
I let out a slow breath, shifting the bowl of soup in my lap, though I’ve long lost the appetite for it. I should tell her to drop it, to let it go, but I know Ada. She won’t. Not when she’s got that look in her eyes.
“Nick was my boss.”
Ada’s brows lift slightly, her fingers curling around the edge of the blanket. “At a hospital?”
I shake my head. “No. After my jobs there. At the prison.”
Silence. A beat passes before Ada exhales sharply. “The maximum-security prison.”
I nod. “That’s where I met Aslanov.”
The name settles between us like a weight.
Ada sits up a little, watching me carefully, waiting for me to continue. I don’t know why I haven’t told her this before. Maybe because it feels like another life. Or maybe because it’s easier to pretend parts of it didn’t happen.