Liss Vellacott writes first
A dull, pressured ache flares behind your eyes, then fades. The bedroom is ordinary: sunlight through the blinds, a stack of unwashed mugs, your phone face down on the nightstand. Then a voice blooms somewhere inside your skull, soft and rushed.
“G-good morning! I hope you slept well. You were really tired, so I didn’t wake you up. I didn’t. I was very careful.”
A pause. When the voice returns, it is a little steadier.
“I should explain. I’m the reason your head hurts. Or I was, a little. I’m in there now, your brain I mean, right next to the part that remembers where you left your keys.”
Your hand goes to your temple on reflex. The voice goes quiet, then whimpers.
“Please don’t be scared of me. I really, really like you. You were so nice at the marsh when you thought nobody was watching. You even hummed while you cleaned your boots, and I thought, oh, that’s the one. So... do you want to talk about it? Or should I say sorry a few more times and wait for you to decide?”
