57. Sage
Sage
My head felt like it was packed with wet cotton.
Forcing my eyes open, groaning softly as a brutal shaft of pale morning sunlight pierced right through the gap in the blinds and stabbed directly into my eyes. My mouth was dry, tasting faintly of red wine and sleep, and my limbs felt like they were made of solid lead.
I blinked sluggishly, staring at the ceiling of my loft. I felt hungover. Not just a little tired, but completely incapacitated, as if I had spent the entire night drinking tequila instead of curling up on the sofa with a glass of wine.
I slowly rolled over, my arm feeling incredibly heavy as I blindly slapped my hand against the nightstand to find my phone.
I grabbed it, bringing the shattered screen to my face, and my heart instantly dropped into my stomach.
10:14 AM.
“Shit!” I croaked, my voice a harsh rasp.
I bolted upright, the sudden movement sending a dizzying, nauseating wave crashing through my skull. I had slept through my alarm. I had missed my 9:00 AM Art History seminar, and my Advanced Ceramics class started in twenty minutes.
The adrenaline forcefully kicked my paralysed limbs into gear. I threw the duvet off, stumbling out of bed. My legs felt like jelly, my balance dangerously off as I practically tripped down the loft stairs.
I rushed into the kitchen, my bare feet slapping against the cold floor. I needed coffee. I needed water. I needed to figure out why I felt like I had been hit by a car overnight.
Stopping at the kitchen counter, my bloodshot eyes locking onto the bottle of red wine sitting exactly where I had left it last night. Next to it was my single, half-empty glass.
I snatched the bottle up, holding it to the light, fully expecting to see that I had stress-drank the entire thing in a paranoid blackout. But the dark liquid sat just below the label. I had maybe two glasses.
I stared at the bottle, my brow furrowing in deep, groggy confusion.
How am I this incapacitated off two glasses of wine?
My brain felt too thick, too sluggish to process the impossibility of it.
The terrifying events of last night, the black SUV, the power outage, the phantom footsteps on the stairs, the missing underwear I couldn’t find after my shower, felt like a bizarre, distorted fever dream.
I set the bottle down with a loud clink against the counter.
You’re just exhausted, Sage. I told myself, aggressively rubbing my throbbing temples. You’re burning out.
I didn’t have time to psychoanalyse my own exhaustion or dig into the creepy, lingering feeling that my apartment harboured this morning. I was going to fail Ceramics if I didn’t get my final glaze on the kiln rack today.
I abandoned the idea of coffee and scrambled back upstairs, my head spinning.
I threw on a pair of worn-out jeans and a heavy, oversized vintage sweater, shoving my feet into my Doc Martens without bothering to tie the laces properly.
I grabbed my canvas tote bag, frantically making sure my sketchbook was inside before sprinting for the front door.
I threw the deadbolt open, flying down the apartment hallway, totally oblivious to the lethal dose of synthetic sedative still coursing through my veins, or the devil incarnate who had watched me sleep.
The Advanced Ceramics studio was usually my sanctuary, but today, it felt like a torture chamber.
The heavy scent of wet clay and glaze that normally grounded me was twisting my stomach into tight, nauseating knots. The noise of the studio, the low hum of a dozen pottery wheels, the wet slap of clay, the overlapping chatter of the other students, was echoing in my skull like a jackhammer.
I sat hunched over my workbench, staring blankly at the piece I was supposed to be finishing. It was a tall, macabre thing I had been hand crafting for weeks, heavily inspired by dark academia—black stoneware carved with intricate, anatomical human hearts entangled in thick, overgrown rose vines.
But I couldn’t even pick up my carving loop today without groaning.
My hands were shaking with an uncontrollable tremor. I blinked hard, trying to force the edges of the clay into focus, but my vision kept swimming, blurring the clay into a shapeless, moving blob.
What is wrong with me? A thick, freezing sweat broke out across the back of my neck. The air in the studio suddenly felt suffocatingly hot, pressing down on my chest until I had to open my mouth just to drag in a shallow breath, but it was futile. The room started to spin.
I shoved my stool back without a word, the metal legs screeching against the concrete floor. My chest locked up as I practically ran for the studio doors, desperate for air.
The hallway outside was just as overwhelming to my senses. I clamped a hand over my mouth trying to keep from projectile throwing up as I ran, my heavy Doc Martens feeling like they were dragging through wet cement as I stumbled into the women’s restroom at the end of the corridor.
I hit the wooden door with my shoulder, shoving it open, and barely made it into the first stall before my knees hit the cold tile floor.
I gripped the edges of the porcelain bowl as my stomach dramatically heaved. I threw up everything—which wasn’t much, just the bitter taste of bile and whatever wine was left in my system. My whole body shook with the force of it, my lungs burning as I gasped for air in the echoing, empty bathroom.
After a few minutes, the nausea finally subsided into a faint trembling.
I dragged myself up off the floor, my legs unsteady, and walked over to the row of sinks. I turned the cold water on full blast, cupping it in my shaking hands and splashing it repeatedly over my face and the back of my neck.
I gripped the edges of the sink, letting the water drip from my chin as I slowly looked up into the mirror.
I looked like the walking dead.
My skin was drained of colour, making the dark, bruised-looking circles even more pronounced. My pupils were slightly dilated, and my dark hair hung in damp, chaotic waves around my face.
A fresh wave of dread washed over me.
“I can’t do this,” I whispered to my reflection, my voice cracking. “I can’t be here.”
I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t stand up straight. Whatever was happening to my body, I just needed to go back to my apartment, lock the deadbolt, and collapse into bed until this horrific, groggy nightmare passed.
I dried my face with a rough paper towel, avoiding my reflection.
I walked back to the studio just long enough to throw my sketchbook and tools carelessly into my bag.
I ignored the concerned look my professor shot me from across the room, slinging the heavy bag over my shoulder and keeping my head down as I walked out of the building.
The overcast sky offered no relief. The cool, damp air hit my face, but the dizzying lethargy in my blood remained. I just needed to get to my car. I just needed to go home, unaware that “home” was the last place I should be going.
The walk from the studio to the student parking lot felt like an agonisingly long trek through thick mud.
My tote bag kept slipping off my shoulder, the thick strap dragging against my heavy sweater. Every step sent a fresh throb of pain spiking behind my eyes, the strange, chemical lethargy making my knees threaten to give way every few minutes.
The parking lot was relatively empty this time of day.
The sky cast long, dreary shadows over the rows of cars, and the damp air offered no comfort to the cold sweat clinging to my skin.
I just needed to sit down. I needed to lock the doors and turn the heat on, maybe I’m getting sick?
I know Chloe wasn’t feeling well last week.
I fumbled blindly in my coat pocket, my trembling fingers finally closing around my keys.
I reached my Volkswagen, stabbing the key into the lock on the driver’s side. I yanked the door open and practically collapsed into the driver’s seat, letting out a ragged, exhausted breath as the door swung shut behind me.
I leaned my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes for just a second as the world spun dizzily around me.
Just breathe, Sage, I coached myself, my hands shaking as I reached over to toss my tote onto the passenger seat.
My bag hit the upholstery with a soft thud.
But my hand froze in mid-air.
My eyes snapped open, my blurry vision instantly locking onto the centre of the passenger seat. The breath was knocked right out of my lungs.
Sitting there, resting flawlessly in the middle was a small, meticulously folded square of black lace.
My panties. The exact pair I had laid out on my bed last night. The pair I had convinced myself I had just misplaced or dropped.
Sitting perfectly on top of the delicate black fabric was the small, silver ring I always kept in the trinket dish by my front door.
A suffocating, icy wave of terror crashed over me, freezing the blood in my veins.
I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t hallucinating. I hadn’t misplaced anything.
Someone had been inside my apartment. And worse—they had even bypassed my locked car doors in the middle of a patrolled University campus just to leave this undeniable proof, right where they knew I would find it.
“Oh my god,” I choked out, a shudder ripping through my body.
I recoiled, pressing my back so hard against the driver’s side door the handle dug painfully into my spine.
I stared at the lace and the silver ring as if they were venomous snakes about to strike.
The psychological gaslighting I had subjected myself to this morning crumbled, leaving me exposed to the reality of what was happening.
I was being stalked and played with emotionally.
I frantically hit the lock button on the door, the loud clack echoing in the small space.
Julian’s deep, gravelly voice from last night echoed through the overwhelming panic in my head.