Scratches

CW: Mental health, Physical violence

Nora spilled sugar again. A thin rattle of grains scattering across the table was the first thing she heard that morning—her hands trembling too much to control the spoon. Half a teaspoon. She never managed half a teaspoon anymore.

She stared at the mess for a moment. Left it. No one else came here anymore. And she didn’t have the energy to pretend she lived a tidy, functioning life.

Jeans, a loose black T‑shirt, sneakers. Hair yanked into a careless ponytail. No mirror, no bra—no point. Her mother used to joke she was shaped like a twig, and Nora had never bothered to argue. If anything, she agreed. She never liked her appearance—too thin, too flat, too boring. But she didn't care for it much, either.

She stepped into the hallway and shut the door behind her like she was locking away a version of herself she didn’t want anyone to see.

---

Mrs. Adams’ office sat on the eighth floor of a concrete giant that loomed over the street. Nora rode the elevator up in silence, watching her reflection flicker in the metal walls—washed out, shaking, hollow.

The elevator shuddered once, halfway up. Nora flinched hard, her breath catching as the fluorescent lights flickered overhead. For a split second her mind conjured the image of a long, shadowed hand gripping the top of the elevator car. Her knees nearly buckled.

When the lights steadied, she felt stupid. Embarrassed. But the dread took a few minutes to unclench its grip.

---

The office itself was dim, cramped, and smelled faintly of old paper and lavender air freshener fighting a losing battle. Nora had once thought it was the most depressing room she’d ever been in. She still did.

Ironic, right?

"Good morning, Nora," Mrs. Adams said, smile polite but thin. It fell the second she got a clear look at her. "Rough night?" she asked, then caught herself and forced her face into neutrality.

Nora nodded stiffly.

They talked about the weather. About chores. About nothing. Nora wasn’t absorbing a single word. Her eyes kept drifting to the window behind Mrs. Adams—the one that reflected only blackness when the light hit it wrong. She imagined a face appearing there. Her chest tightened.

Mrs. Adams noticed.

"Tell me about your sleep," she said gently.

Nora took a shaky breath. "It came again."

A quiet nod. Permission.

"Around one-thirty, I think. I’d barely fallen asleep when I saw it at the window." Nora’s voice wavered. "Its eyes were red this time. Blood-red. Just staring at me. And it looked bigger. Taller. Its legs were longer…"

Mrs. Adams kept still, listening.

"It crawled up my shirt. I felt its legs on my skin. Then it scratched me. Harder than last time. Like it wanted to tear me open." Her throat tightened. "When I woke up, there were scratches everywhere and—I just—" Her voice cracked apart.

Mrs. Adams leaned forward and lifted a hand. "Nora. Look at me. Breathe. Slow. In… and out. That’s it."

After a minute, the trembling softened.

"Do you want to look at your back again?" she asked. Nora nodded quickly.

The mirror stood in the corner—tall, dark, waiting. Nora lifted her shirt. Her gaze fell on her back, and the scratches stared back, red and angry. Her chest tightened, a wave of fear and disbelief flooding her.

"Tell me what you see," Mrs. Adams encouraged.

"Two long scratches down my spine… and three smaller ones on the sides. They’re fading now but this morning—" She choked.

Mrs. Adams whispered her name like a tether. "Nora. There is nothing on your back. No scratches. No creature." She paused, her eyes going still—almost hesitant. "Your mind is replaying trauma. These are hallucinations. You’re safe now. There is no point in digging up the past. Do you hear me?"

Nora swallowed the words without believing them.

The session faded into softer topics. By the time Nora left, some color had returned to her cheeks. The trembling remained.

---

Outside, sunlight washed over her, warm and grounding. She chose the long walk home just for that—just to feel something real. She dragged her hand along the rough stone of a building as she passed, grounding herself in the texture, the warmth, the way the world didn't vanish when she wasn't looking at it.

She was passing the park when she saw a woman sitting on a bench. It took her a moment—ten years of distance blurring recognition—before it clicked.

Cindy.

Her best friend from high school. Stronger-looking now. Healthier. Like she'd grown into her skin.

"Oh my God, Nora?" Cindy stood, disbelief turning instantly into something like worry. Her gaze flickered to Nora's trembling hands.

They talked. Briefly. Awkwardly. Cindy kept studying her like she was trying to decode something without scaring her off. When Nora mentioned she lived nearby, Cindy asked if they could catch up properly. Nora hesitated, then nodded. She didn't want to be alone anyway.

---

When they entered the apartment, Nora kicked herself for not cleaning. "Please ignore the mess," she muttered.

Cindy didn't answer. Not at first.

"Nora…" Her voice was unsure. Confused. And a little anxious.

Nora turned.

Cindy was staring at the shirt draped over the chair—the one Nora had worn last night.

"Your shirt…" Cindy’s face went pale. "Nora, it’s covered in blood."

---

The moment Nora left the building, Mrs. Adams locked her office door and pressed her back to it, breathing too quickly to be the composed professional Nora knew.

The lavender air freshener no longer covered the metallic tang rising from the corner of the room. The faint scent of iron she’d been praying Nora wouldn’t notice lingered.

Her hands shook as she grabbed the phone.

"Hello?" she whispered. "It came back for her again. The marks were fading when she arrived, but she saw them clearly this morning. I don’t know how much longer I can convince her they’re hallucinations. If she tells someone—"

A long, irritated sigh spilled through the speaker.

Then a deep, rasping voice answered:

"Prepare the altar." A pause. "We’re sacrificing tonight."