The Choice
The vial trembled in Iris’s hand.
The liquid inside was dark, thick, alive. It seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat, a rhythm that matched the pounding in her ears. The sirens were closer now — not behind her, but around her, inside her, a wail that came from somewhere deep in her own skull.
Drink it.
The voice was insistent, hungry, impatient.
Drink it and come back to me.
Iris lowered the vial.
“No.”
The voice went silent.
“I’m not going to drink something just because you tell me to. I’m not going to let you control me anymore.”
You don’t have a choice.
“Everyone has a choice.”
Not you. Not anymore.
Iris looked at the journal on the passenger seat. The pages were filled with horrors she didn’t remember committing. The words were hers, but they felt like they belonged to someone else. A stranger. A monster.
“What if I don’t want to remember?” she whispered.
You don’t have to want it. You just have to do it.
“I’m not going to drink it.”
Then you will be arrested. You will go to prison. And in prison, I will come out. I will kill again. And there will be nothing you can do to stop me.
Iris’s hands shook.
“Why? Why do you have to kill?”
Because it’s what I am. It’s what we are.
“We’re not killers.”
You are. You just won’t accept it.
Iris threw the vial out the window.
It shattered on the asphalt, the dark liquid spreading across the cracked pavement like blood. The voice screamed — a wordless cry of rage and pain — and then went silent.
Iris gripped the steering wheel.
Her heart was pounding. Her breath was shallow. But she had done it. She had made a choice.
She started the car and drove.
She drove for hours.
The sun rose higher, then began to fall. The fields gave way to forests, the forests to hills, the hills to a small town she had never seen before. She parked in front of a diner and sat for a moment, staring at the neon sign.
EAT it said. Simple. Ordinary. Normal.
She needed normal.
She got out of the car and walked inside.
The diner was nearly empty — an old man in a booth, a waitress behind the counter, a cook in the back. The smell of coffee and bacon filled the air. Iris sat in a corner booth and ordered a cup of coffee she didn’t want.
The waitress smiled. “Rough night?”
“You could say that.”
“Where you headed?”
“I don’t know.”
The waitress nodded, as if that made perfect sense. She poured the coffee and walked away.
Iris stared at the cup.
The liquid was dark, hot, steaming. It looked like the vial. Like the liquid that was supposed to take her back to the white room.
She pushed the cup away.
She couldn’t.
Not now. Not ever.
The door of the diner opened.
A woman walked in. Mid-thirties. Dark hair. Plain clothes.
Detective Walsh.
Iris froze.
The detective scanned the room. Her eyes landed on Iris. Her expression was unreadable.
She walked to the booth and sat down across from her.
“Ms. Cole.”
“Detective Walsh.”
“Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?”
“Since this morning.”
“Longer than that. You disappeared. Your apartment is empty. Your phone is off. Your coworkers haven’t seen you.”
Iris said nothing.
The detective leaned forward.
“I know about the journal.”
Iris’s blood went cold.
“What journal?”
“The one you’ve been writing in for years. The one that describes twelve murders.”
Iris stared at her.
“How do you know about that?”
“Because I found it. In your apartment. Hidden under your bed.”
“That’s not possible. I’ve never written in a journal.”
The detective pulled a photograph from her pocket and slid it across the table.
It was a journal. Leather-bound. Worn. The same one the older Iris had given her.
But this one had her name on the cover.
Iris Cole.
“I don’t understand,” Iris whispered.
“Neither do I. But I’m going to find out.”
The detective reached into her coat and pulled out handcuffs.
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Elena Vance.”
Iris didn’t move.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
The words faded into the background.
Iris was somewhere else.
She was in the white room.
The light was everywhere.
The silence was heavy.
And the figure was there — the older version of herself, standing just a few feet away.
You shouldn’t have thrown away the vial, the figure said.
I had to.
Now you’ll go to prison.
Maybe that’s where I belong.
The figure stepped closer.
There’s another way.
What?
The figure reached out and took her hands.
You can stay here. With me. In the white room. And never leave.
And what happens to the thing inside me?
It stays too. Locked away. Forever.
Iris looked at the endless white, the endless light, the endless silence.
What if I don’t want to stay?
The figure smiled.
Then you wake up.
And face what you’ve done.
Iris opened her eyes.
She was in the back of a police car.
Detective Walsh was driving.
The handcuffs were cold on her wrists.
And in the rearview mirror, she saw herself.
Smiling.