An Offer She Couldn't Refuse
it waited for the hollow her grief left behind
Prompt by Original Worlds (Ira Robinson)
Does this painting tell a story?
Original painting by Original Worlds (Ira Robinson)
🖤
There once was a woman who survived
what should have taken her, too.
The road had been wet that night,
slick with rain that fell too fast
and too hard for the earth to drink.
Her hands tightened on the wheel.
The tires slipped.
For one impossible, endless second,
she felt the world slip from her grip.
Metal tore.
Glass shattered.
The sky turned sideways.
And then,
nothing.
•
They told her later it was quick.
They told her her husband
had not suffered.
They told her her child
had not felt any pain.
They told her many things
meant to soften the shape of it.
But they weren’t there.
•
She remembered.
Her hands on the wheel.
Her foot pressing the brake too late.
The sound of their child’s scream
cutting off too suddenly.
The way her husband’s hand
reached for her,
but never found her.
She remembered living.
And she knew
it was her fault.
She knew she had killed them.
•
Her house became a place she endured.
No longer a home.
More like a tomb
for everything she lost.
Shoes still by the door.
A coffee cup left half-finished.
A small sweater
folded over the back of a chair.
Everything exactly where it had been left,
as if the world had made a mistake
and might,
at any moment,
correct itself.
She stopped opening the curtains.
Stopped answering the phone.
Stopped stepping outside
unless she had no choice at all.
•
At night, she lay in the bed
that had once held warmth
and stared into the dark
until she could no longer tell
where she ended and it began.
Grief did not break her.
It hollowed her.
It made her vulnerable.
And in that hollow space,
something else found its way in.
And it did not hesitate.
•
It came to her on a night
when exhaustion
finally overcame memory.
Not fully asleep.
Not fully awake.
That fragile place
where the mind loosens its grip
on what is real.
•
That is where it wanted her.
•
Golden eyes glowing in the darkness.
Watching.
It leaned close,
placed a hand on her shoulder,
gentle,
almost comforting,
and whispered,
“You killed them.”
•
The words settled.
Rooted.
Became something
she could not push away.
She knew it was true.
•
And then,
softly,
“But I can give them back.”
•
A pause.
•
“Not something that fades when you wake.”
It leaned closer.
•
“A life you can live inside.”
And then, softer still,
“Let me give you just a moment of it.”
•
She nodded.
And that was all it needed.
•
That night,
when she closed her eyes,
the road was dry.
The sky was clear.
Her hands were steady on the wheel.
Her husband laughed beside her.
Their child leaned forward between them,
alive, chatty, whole.
There was no slipping.
No impact.
No end.
Alive.
•
The world opened.
Received her.
Held.
•
They arrived home.
The door opened.
Shoes scattered.
Laughter filled the halls.
Her husband brushed past her,
pressing a kiss to her temple,
and a light spank to her bottom.
He gave her a wink
and mouthed later suggestively.
Her child tugged her forward,
impatient with joy.
Everything moved.
Everything responded.
Everything was right.
•
When she returned,
if it could be called that,
the real world felt thin.
Unfinished.
Wrong.
Unlivable without them.
•
That night it returned,
golden eyes almost mischievous
“Do you want to go back?”
She ignored every warning bell.
She didn’t care.
She only wanted them back.
She nodded.
So back she went.
•
Again,
and again,
and again.
•
Night,
after night,
after night.
•
Every night,
it appeared with a smile
and a twinkle in its golden eyes.
“Do you want to go back?”
Every time she nodded.
•
Every time,
the life deepened.
Not memory.
Not repetition.
Continuation.
•
Days became weeks.
Weeks stretched into months.
Her child grew.
Her husband at her side.
They built a complete life.
Everything she wanted.
•
And every time she entered,
something of her stayed behind.
•
Every night,
it was patient.
It had done this many times before.
•
On the thirteenth night,
this time,
“Do you want to come back?”
•
She shook her head.
She whispered, “No... leave me there.”
This life did not feel real anymore.
She wanted to stay with them forever.
•
It smirked.
She closed her eyes for the last time.
•
All that remained was her body,
and it slid into her
like slipping on a pair of worn gloves.
It always loved that part.
•
She stood in the kitchen.
Sunlight warm against her skin.
Her child laughing behind her.
Her husband calling her name.
•
She turned toward them
and something
slipped.
•
Small at first.
A flicker.
•
Her child’s voice
lagged.
Just slightly.
•
Her husband’s smile
too wide to feel natural.
•
The sunlight from the window
lost all its warmth.
•
She paused.
•
“Did you...” she began.
•
Her child stood there, smiling.
Eerily still.
•
“Why did you stop?” her husband asked,
but his voice came a second too late.
Like it had been placed there.
•
Something inside her tightened.
The room dimmed.
Just a fraction.
•
“Wait...” she said.
And then,
her child’s face blurred.
Like paint no longer clinging to the canvas.
•
“No,” she whispered.
•
She stepped forward,
reached,
and her fingers passed
through nothing.
•
The kitchen stretched.
Warped.
The walls pulling away
like breath being pulled from a body.
•
“No... no, no, no...”
•
Her husband reached for her,
but his hand unraveled
before it found her.
•
And then,
they were gone.
•
Gone.
•
The light of the sun vanished.
•
She was alone.
•
Not in the house.
Not in the world.
•
Inside a dark that had no edges.
No walls,
until she struck something,
invisible,
unyielding.
•
She pounded.
She screamed.
•
“No. Please... please give them back... please...”
And then,
she saw.
Through something veiled.
Something distant.
Like watching from somewhere
she could not reach.
•
A mirror.
A reflection.
Her reflection.
Her face.
But not her.
•
Her body stretched its arms
slowly overhead,
fingers lacing together
as though trying on her body.
A deep breath drawn into its lungs.
Too comfortable.
Too settled in.
•
She couldn’t look away
from herself in the mirror.
Looking at what was wearing
her face and her skin.
•
And then,
the smile.
A smirk.
•
Because it could feel her watching.
It wanted her to watch.
•
It could feel her pounding.
It knew she was screaming.
•
It tilted her head slightly to the side.
And its eyes,
its eyes burned gold.
Bright.
Ancient.
Victorious.
•
“Please...” she choked.
“I’ll do anything... just don’t... please...”
•
The gold lingered.
It picked up a picture from the dresser.
It was her body, her husband, and their child
arms around each other,
smiling,
like nothing bad could ever touch them.
It knew she was watching.
It gave her one last look
before it placed it face down.
It had no more use for them.
They weren’t its family.
•
And then,
gold
slowly
faded.
Back to green.
Soft.
Human.
Believable.
The smirk remained.
•
And just like that,
the connection snapped.
The mirror vanished.
And she was left in the dark.
•
Everything,
gone.
•
No walls she could see.
No body she could feel.
Only the echo of what she had lost
crashing back all at once.
•
The road.
The rain.
The sound.
The scream.
The truth.
•
They were dead.
They had always been dead.
And she had chosen this.
•
Her legs gave out.
She couldn’t feel them.
She folded into nothing.
And she sobbed.
•
A sound that was hers.
Broken.
Raw.
Endless.
•
And then,
another sound.
•
Soft.
Faint.
•
Laughter.
•
Not inside.
Not her.
•
It.
Outside.
Wearing her
like just another change of clothes.
•
Its laughter.
From her own mouth.
From the life she could no longer reach.
•
It grew louder.
Almost joyful.
•
And it did not stop.
•
Not when she screamed.
Not when she begged.
Not when she clawed at nothing
until there was nothing left
of her to claw with.
•
And as she pounded within,
in the world outside,
in the shape of her body,
something sinister smirked
and began its day.
•
•
•
Thank you for being here.
For choosing to sit with work that isn’t polished for comfort, that doesn’t soften its teeth. Writing is how I exhale the pieces of myself I can’t carry quietly. It takes time... between work, life, dog, and all the little ghosts trailing behind me. If my words have found you, your support helps me build my career as a writer and keeps my heartbeat alive. 🖤
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I think you have found a calling with these stories. Deeply, seriously creepy.
Wow this was haunting Laura.