The Sirens
The sirens grew louder.
Iris sat on the cold warehouse floor, the journal in her lap, the vial in her hand. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat, her temples, her fingertips. The sound of the police cars was getting closer, and with each passing second, her window to escape was shrinking.
She looked at the vial.
Dark liquid. Thick. Shimmering.
The older Iris had said it would put her to sleep. That sleep would take her back to the white room. That in the white room, she could face the thing inside her.
But what if the older Iris was lying? What if the vial contained poison? What if it was a test — and the wrong choice would kill her?
Iris stood up.
Her legs were numb. Her head was spinning. She shoved the vial into her pocket and grabbed the journal. She couldn’t leave it here. It was the only proof that any of this was real.
She ran to the door.
The hallway was dark, but she remembered the way — past the staircase, through the corridor, down the rusted steps. She pushed open the heavy metal door and stumbled into the cold morning air.
The sun was rising, pale and gray, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. Her car was still parked across the street. The gate was still rusted, the graffiti still bright.
And three police cars were turning onto the block.
Iris ducked behind a dumpster.
The cars rolled past, their lights flashing, their sirens wailing. They stopped in front of the warehouse — not at her car, at the building itself. Officers climbed out, their hands on their weapons, their faces grim.
They were here for her.
How did they know? How did they find her? Had the older Iris called them? Had she set her up?
Iris pressed herself against the cold metal of the dumpster and tried to slow her breathing. Her heart was a drum, her lungs were fire, her mind was a hurricane of questions.
Think, she told herself. Think.
She couldn’t go back to the warehouse. She couldn’t go back to her apartment. She couldn’t go anywhere the police might be waiting.
She had to disappear.
She had to run.
She waited until the officers entered the building, then she sprinted to her car.
Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely get the key in the ignition. The engine turned over. She pulled out of the parking lot and drove, her eyes fixed on the rearview mirror, waiting for the flashing lights to appear behind her.
They didn’t.
She drove for an hour, then two, then three. She didn’t know where she was going. She just drove — away from the warehouse, away from the city, away from the life she had known.
The sun rose higher. The streets grew busier. The buildings grew smaller.
She found herself on a rural road, surrounded by fields and forests, the city a distant memory on the horizon.
She pulled over to the side of the road and killed the engine.
The silence was deafening.
She looked at the journal on the passenger seat.
She opened it to the next page.
March 12, 2004.
I killed a woman today. Her name was Sarah. She was a nurse. She had two children. She was kind to me.
I don’t remember doing it. I woke up in a motel room with her blood on my hands. Her body was in the bathtub.
The thing inside me was laughing.
I am afraid of myself. I am afraid of what I will become.
But I am more afraid of what I already am.
Iris closed the journal.
She couldn’t read anymore. The words were too heavy, too dark, too real.
I am afraid of what I already am.
She looked at her hands. The dirt was gone, but the memory of it remained — dark, crusted, embedded in her skin.
She thought about the white room. The light. The silence. The figure in the shadows.
You’ve been here before.
She had been there before. Many times. She just didn’t remember.
Because the thing inside her didn’t want her to remember.
She took the vial out of her pocket.
The liquid shimmered in the morning light, dark and thick and ominous.
Take it, the voice whispered.
It was her voice. But not hers. Deeper. Darker.
Take it, and come back to me.
Iris gripped the vial.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
The voice laughed.
I am you. The part of you you’ve been trying to kill.
“I’ve never tried to kill you.”
You have. Every time you pretended to be normal. Every time you smiled when you wanted to scream. Every time you chose to forget.
You’ve been trying to kill me your whole life.
And I’ve been trying to survive.
Iris unscrewed the cap.
The liquid smelled like metal and rot.
Drink it, the voice said.
Drink it, and come back to me.
Come back to the white room.
Come back home.
Iris raised the vial to her lips.
She hesitated.
The sirens were getting closer.s.