Stranger

The demon in my nightmares is nothing but a blur. It’s almost as if my brain can’t imagine her face. She’s like a concept that hasn’t been fully realized, a pixilation of shades of grey.

But she knows my name. She always knows my name.

“Céleste!” she cries. “Pourquoi?!” she screams.

I cover my ears and count the seconds in between. Soon I’ll wake up. Soon I’ll be free.

“Céleste, pourquoi nous as-tu quittés?”

I don’t know what to say. I never do.

“Souviens-toi de moi! Souviens-toi de nous!”

I don’t speak French.

“Who are you?” I yelled into the void of my mind.

Silence—the kind that sends static sensations up your arms.

It’s deafening.

“Qui je suis?” she replied softly, almost despairingly. “Je suis une étrangère.”

That’s when I opened my eyes, and the memory disappeared. I was back in the present. Back in my psychiatrist’s office, gripping my knees with superhuman strength.

“Tell me again what she said?”

My throat itched like fresh wool on skin. All I wanted was to scratch it, but it would bleed—again—and I would have to stay longer. Again. And we’d already gone over during last week’s session.

Why was I cursed with a broken mind?

“I don’t know,” I admitted, reaching for the cup of water on the table between us.

It almost slipped from my grasp because of how clammy my palms were. My tongue was so dry that it stuck to the roof of my mouth. The water was flat, but cool on my lips. It flooded my mouth, and I momentarily forgot how to swallow.

I breathed in and out. I could remember.

My throat bobbed fruitlessly at first, but then the water went down. I didn’t choke this time. Then again, I never did.

“Celeste,” Dr. Kline reprimanded. “If you want your refill, I need to hear more about these dreams.”

“I told you, I don’t know what they’re saying. It sounds like French, but it can't be real because I don’t know French.”

“The mind can subconsciously pick up information, store it, and use it at a later time. You would not be the first to learn that you understand more than you originally thought.”

French? I wanted to laugh. I barely spoke English.

“I don’t know what she's saying, truthfully, but… I feel like she's trying to remind me of something—something I’ve forgotten.”

“How often do these dreams occur?”

“Nearly every night, and I want them to stop. I want to stop waking up in a cold sweat, clutching my chest as if my heart is going to explode. I’m tired of being startled by sudden noises. It’s too much.”

Dr. Kline relaxed back into his brown leather lounge chair and clasped his hands with a soft smile. Leaning over, he took ‌his script book from his side table drawer and scribbled something on it.

“Here,” he handed me the order. “I increased the dose. Don’t skip a day, and the dreams should go away.”

I forced the tremor in my hand to still, and I took the paper. We spoke for a few more minutes, mindless filler speech that meant nothing. Now that I had the paper, I would be fine.

All my problems would be resolved.

All this feeling, this emotion—gone.

The medicine, aptly named Happiness, remedied humanity’s ultimate flaw. Emotion. Albeit only temporarily. However, I had heard in some circles that they were working on a permanent fix. A one-time dose to erase it entirely.

No more panic. No more despair. No more rage.

Just a sea of peace.

That’s what I wanted. Indefinite neutrality.

There was just one problem: the medicine wasn’t working.

This was the third time they’d increased my dose. It was working for everyone else in society. Crime was at an all-time low. Global reports estimated that less than two percent of the population still experienced mental health-related issues. The government was even considering eliminating over two-thirds of our social welfare funding because of a lack of use.

I made it to the pharmacy before closing. I stood in the line, keeping my head down and tapping my foot on the white tile. The iridescent light reflected into my eyes, and I squeezed them shut.

Too much sound. Too much everything.

I practically threw my debit card at the pharmacist when checking out. I grabbed my medicine and scrambled out the door. The fresh air was just enough to keep the world from spinning.

The drive home was calm, at least. Happiness had a way of turning road-ragers into model drivers. If anything, I was the erratic one. I was too quick on the brakes, shaky with my steering, and heavy on the accelerator.

Once I was home, I entered the bathroom and flicked on the lights. I ripped open the pharmacy bag and placed the orange bottle on the counter.

“You have to work,” I whispered. “I need you to work.”

If it didn’t, I didn’t know what I was going to do. I was out of options.

I popped the cap off and poured two purple capsules into my palm.

I’d been taking Happiness since I was ten. For fifteen years, I watched the world improve around me while I only sank further into darkness. This medicine was my only way out, and I knew it.

I threw them in my mouth and swallowed.

If I wanted quiet, I needed to turn down the noise.

I stumbled to bed an hour later, cradling my head. I shoved my head into a cool pillow, seeking relief that never came. It felt like someone was repeatedly taking a brick to my skull. The pain was agonizing. My hand tremored as I reached for the phone on my nightstand. I needed to call for help. This wasn’t normal.

The phone fell when my shaky fingers brushed against it.

I growled, but the noise only disoriented me further. That’s when the world started spinning, and everything in my stomach from dinner started sloshing. It was going to come up whether or not I wanted it to. On unsteady legs, I wobbled to the bathroom.

I threw my hands on the counter to stabilize myself. I turned the faucet on and threw cool water in my face. It helped the room stop rotating, dulling the nausea. But the pain was omnipresent in my head. There wasn’t a place between my temples that didn’t radiate with it.

I filled a glass of water from the tap and sipped it slowly. Maybe I was just dehydrated. Very dehydrated.

As I sipped, I looked up. My reflection was staring back at me with the same matted blonde hair and dull blue eyes. It was me… but it ‌wasn’t. Something was wrong. Different. I narrowed my eyes and leaned closer.

My reflection remained completely still. Watching me. Then, her lips twitched, and her eyes sparked with a life I knew was not present in my own.

I raised my hand to the glass and tapped my finger.

She still didn’t move.

“Are you real?” I whispered, words slightly slurred.

“More real than you,” she replied.

I dropped the glass in my hand. It hit the counter and rolled off onto the tile. The sound of it bursting sent me shuffling back into the wall, jaw slack.

“No,” I threw my hand over my mouth.

I knew that voice. I've known that voice. How could I have been so ignorant?

“Say my name.”

I shook my head. Heart thudding. Throat tightening.

“Say it,” she spat.

“Please,” I whispered. It was a plea from my soul. “Please don’t make me.”

“You have to.”

Damnable silence.

“Demon.”

She smiled briefly, as if proud of my connection. It only lasted a moment before the anguish she carried in every nightmare came to the forefront.

“Pourquoi, Céleste? Why have you forsaken me?”

“You aren’t real.”

Her face hardened, sorrow blending into something harder. Something deeper.

“Ask me again,” she demanded. “Ask me who I am.”

“I know who you are, demon.”

She lifted a brow.

“Do you?”

“How are you here? Why are you here?”

“Those are the wrong questions. You already know their answers.”

I blinked, throat bobbing. My breaths were coming in short pants. The panic was surging, but it wasn’t completely taking over like normal. Why?

“Who are you?”

“I’m you.”

The words were calm but sharp in my ears. I dropped to my knees, rocking back and forth.

“No!”

“You tried to be rid of me. But you failed.”

“Go away!”

“You thought you could hide me? You thought you could push me down?” The mirror cracked. “You can’t erase yourself, Céleste.” Another splinter. “Because if you become a stranger, then you become nothing!”

I screamed soundlessly as the mirror exploded into thousands of shards.

Then the world went black.

I awoke lying on my back in a field of soft grass. The sun glowed above me, sending down warm rays that enveloped me rather than burned me. There was a small breeze, and in it was something as familiar as the smell of parchment. But I couldn’t place it.

I found my feet just as I felt a tug on the back of my shirt.

“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle.”

I turned to find a young girl staring up at me expectantly.

“I–I’m sorry,” I stuttered. “I don’t speak French.”

“You sound like you do to me.”

I furrowed my brow.

“I’m speaking French?”

She nodded. “Perfectly.”

“Huh,” I said, looking around at the open field. “This must be a dream.”

“More like a memory,” she added.

When I looked back down at her, I realized something far too late. Her eyes were the same saltwater blue. Her hair was a slightly brighter shade of blonde. Even the mole on her forehead was the same.

I crouched down, eye-to-eye.

“What’s your name?”

“Céleste, but Maman calls me—.”

“Soleil,” I finished for her.

She smiled with a nod.

“I haven’t seen her in a while. Do you know where Mom is?”

I frowned.

“She’s gone.”

“Do you know when she’s coming back?”

I put my hand on the girl’s shoulder and stroked it with my thumb.

“She isn’t.”

She looked down, chewing her cheek. “Why did you leave?”

Her voice was small. Fragile.

I’d done that.

“I went to America,” I said. “I didn’t want to remember. It hurt too much.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sometimes, memories hurt. So we bury them.”

“Like seeds?”

“In a way.”

“But seeds grow. Do memories grow, too?”

“They do, but we can choose not to eat the fruit. We can choose not to remember them.”

She pinched her brow. “So you don’t get sad?”

I nodded.

“I think I would want to remember," she said.

“You say that, but you can’t know that for sure.”

“If I forget the bad, then I forget the good.”

“Yes, but it’s what’s best.”

“But I don’t want to become a stranger.”

Stranger.

The word echoed. Persistent. Slicing.

The light from the sun grew brighter. A sharp pain pierced my sternum, and I clutched my chest. The ground shook, and I struggled to stay balanced. I looked over at the girl. Her face was one I knew so well.

Terrified.

I reached out to her, but she was too far away. All I met was air as the world shook.

The pain stabbed my chest again, and I doubled over. When I looked up, the girl was gone. Not a trace of her in sight. That pain hurt more than all the rest.

The light flared again, and the world cracked open.

I came to while on my bathroom tile, fluorescent lights burning my retinas. My chest was wet. Was it water? There were several people in the room, one of them crouched next to me. The man was speaking, but I could only make out some of it.

“Celeste? Can you hear me?”

“Hmm,” I mumbled.

He had on a grey EMT coat and was flashing a light in my eyes. I squinted. It was too bright.

“Your neighbor heard a noise and called for help. Do you remember what happened?”

I stilled. Did I remember?

Flashes of a woman with a gentle smile and breeze-blown hair struck me. She was every painter’s masterpiece. Small hands holding hers. A whirlwind of flour everywhere. Laughter. Peace.

I nodded.

“Oui.” I paused. “I remember.”