The Future Woman
Iris did not sit down.
She stood in the doorway of the warehouse room, her phone flashlight still illuminating the space, her eyes fixed on the woman behind the desk. The woman who had her face. The woman who said she was her. Thirty years from now.
“That’s impossible,” Iris whispered.
“Is it?” the woman asked. Her voice was strange — familiar and foreign at the same time. The same vocal cords, aged. The same accent, weathered. “You’ve already been inside the white room. You’ve already lost time. You’ve already seen things you can’t explain. Is time travel really where you draw the line?”
Iris took a step back.
The woman stood up slowly. Her movements were stiff, arthritic. She wore a faded sweater and worn jeans. Her hands were scarred.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” she said. “I’m here to save you.”
“Save me from what?”
“From yourself.”
Iris wanted to run. Every instinct screamed at her to flee, to get back in her car, to drive home and pretend none of this was happening. But her feet wouldn’t move. Her legs were frozen.
“What do you mean, save me from myself?”
The older Iris walked around the desk and stood a few feet away. Close enough to touch.
“You’ve been having blackouts, haven’t you? Losing time. Waking up in places you don’t remember going.”
“Yes.”
“Finding dirt under your nails. Photographs on your phone you didn’t take.”
“Yes.”
“Because you’re not the only one in your head.”
Iris’s heart pounded. “What?”
“There’s something inside you, Iris. Something that’s been there since you were seven years old. Since your father locked you in that basement.”
The basement.
The memory rose up like bile — the darkness, the spiders, the cold. Her father’s voice through the door: You stay there until you learn to be good.
“How do you know about the basement?”
“Because I was there. I am you. I remember everything you remember. And I remember what happened next.”
“What happened next?”
The older Iris looked down at her scarred hands.
“You killed him.”
The words hung in the air.
Iris shook her head. “No. No, I didn’t. My father died of a heart attack. When I was fifteen. I was at school.”
“You were at school. But you weren’t at school the night before.”
“I don’t—”
“Your father didn’t die of a heart attack, Iris. You smothered him with a pillow. And then you went back to school and pretended everything was normal.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is. You just don’t remember. Because the thing inside you — the thing that’s been with you since the basement — it doesn’t want you to remember.”
Iris’s legs gave out.
She sank to the floor, her back against the wall, her phone clattering beside her. The flashlight beam swept across the room, illuminating dust motes and shadows.
“You’re lying,” she whispered.
“I wish I was.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because the blackouts are getting worse. Because you’re going to kill again. And this time, you won’t be able to hide it.”
Iris looked up. “Who did I kill?”
The older Iris knelt in front of her.
“Elena Vance was not your first victim.”
The room spun.
Iris put her head between her knees and tried to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. The air was thick with dust and decay.
“Who else?” she whispered. “Who else did I kill?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters!”
“Then count. There are twelve.”
Twelve.
The number echoed in her skull.
Twelve people she had killed. Twelve families destroyed. Twelve lives erased by hands she didn’t remember using.
“How do you know this?”
“Because I’m you. And I remember. All of it. Every face. Every scream. Every moment.”
“Why don’t I remember?”
“Because the thing inside you protects you. It takes the memories. It hides them in the white room.”
Iris looked up. “The white room is real?”
“It’s the place where your mind stores everything you can’t face. The murders. The basement. The truth.”
Iris stared at the older version of herself.
Her face. Her eyes. Her scars.
“Can you help me?”
“I can try. But you have to trust me.”
“How can I trust you when I don’t even trust myself?”
The older Iris reached out and took her hands. Her skin was cold, papery, the bones sharp beneath.
“Because I’m the only one who knows what you’re going through. Because I’ve been where you are. Because I made the wrong choice — and I’ve spent thirty years trying to undo it.”
“What choice?”
The older Iris stood up.
“Tomorrow, Detective Walsh will come to your apartment with a warrant for your arrest. The fingerprint on Elena Vance’s throat matches yours. You have forty-eight hours to decide: run, and become me. Or stay, and face what you’ve done.”
“Iris’s throat was dry. “What happens if I run?”
The older Iris walked to the window and looked out at the dark city.
“You become me. You run for thirty years, from city to city, from name to name. You kill again, and again, and again. And you end up here, in this warehouse, alone, waiting for the past to catch up.”
“And if I stay?”
The older Iris turned.
“You go to prison. You get help. You stop the thing inside you before it kills anyone else.”
“There’s a third option.”
“There’s always a third option.”
“What is it?”
The older Iris smiled. It was the saddest smile Iris had ever seen.
“You could go back to the white room. And never leave.”