I think my body remembers. The body remembers the little things better than anything. It remembers the rush of adrenaline down your veins, the weariness that hit you when you stayed up at night, the soreness on your limbs as they press down into the pavement, the chills under your skin… the body remembers.
At first I cut my hair. A defining enough trait of mine to throw anyone off my trail. Then I figured that wasn’t enough, and I changed my name, as well. And then I learned to paint, because I figured a hobby would be a good cover story. Then I moved into that room, so that I’d just be written off as weird whenever I did something that seemed off… and like that, bit by bit, I got rid of her. Whatever defining traits I could think of, they disappeared, and then when I looked back, realized I couldn’t… remember her. Not her name, not what she looked like, not who she was friends with. I guess I wore the mask for long enough that eventually there was nothing left under it.
But how was that my choice? I buried her alive so that at least one of us could live. But now I catch two pale violet dots peeking out from behind my eyes, and I’m left with two possibilities: that she’s still there, clawing still, begging still, for death, for release, for a life of fear… or I open the lid, and I find the casket empty.