The library was neatly organized, with stacks of books lining the shelves. A young woman stood above me, her long, straight dark hair flowing behind her. She was dressed in Victorian-style attire, adorned with elaborate designs, paired with a set of black gloves. As I studied her, I couldn't help but notice her pale skin and the dark circles under her eyes.
"Have you been taking your pills regularly?" she asked in a cold, emotionless voice.
I nodded, looking up at her. "Yes."
Her eyes bore into mine before she began pacing around me. My body remained reclined in the chair, my head tilted back to follow her movements. The walls around us were dark and muted, painted in earthy tones of browns, grays, and blacks, with splashes of deep red. They looked decayed, as though time had eroded them. Materials like plaster, rusted metal, dried blood, and even dead insects seemed embedded into the walls, sticking there like a grotesque collage of ruin.
Her voice broke the silence. "How have the side effects been? Any tiredness? Negative thoughts about harming yourself or others? Dizziness? Weight gain?"
I squirmed uncomfortably in the chair as she continued pacing. "I… um… everything's been okay. I'm a little tired most of the time, but overall, I've been fine."
She stopped her pacing and sat down in a wooden chair next to me. The loud creak echoed through the room. "How have your relationships with your family been?"
"Fine. Just fine," I answered quickly, nodding.
Her cold, emotionless eyes locked onto mine, and my heartbeat quickened. She leaned closer, lowering her head until her ear was pressed against my chest. My heart raced even faster.
"I'm not c…comfortable," I stuttered.
She stood up abruptly, her black dress shoes making a sharp creak against the floor. Walking to a drawer, she opened it and rummaged through the contents before speaking softly, "Have a good day, Palva."
---
It was 8:00 AM when I found myself in my room, painting a portrait of a woman I'd found on Pinterest. I wasn't the best at drawing without a reference, though I wouldn't say I was bad at art. I'm no Leonardo da Vinci, but I'm decent—especially when I have a reference.
Elliott Smith played softly in the background, helping me focus as I worked. My ADHD often made it hard to stay on track, and I had the strange habit of pacing around my room, daydreaming about how the final piece would look. Daydreaming wasn't ideal, but it was better than procrastinating entirely.
Things took a turn when I accidentally knocked my brush into a bucket of red paint.
"Damn it!" I muttered, lunging to grab it, but it was too late. The brush had already submerged, and red paint splattered onto the wooden floor. Dropping to my knees, I shoved my hands into the bucket, feeling around for the brush.
"Where the hell is it?" I mumbled. No matter how much I searched, the brush wasn't there. It was as if it had disappeared into a void. Considering it was my only brush and I was a broke college student, buying another one wasn't an option.
"Fine," I muttered, taking a deep breath before plunging my head into the bucket.
To my surprise, instead of hitting the bottom, I kept sinking—my whole body now submerged in the red paint. The world around me shifted, and I suddenly found myself swimming down toward the bottom of the "paint." I spotted something: a brown wooden boat.
Gasping, I surfaced and found myself face-to-face with a man standing in the boat. He had long black hair tied into a man bun, a white long-sleeve shirt, and black jeans. His clothes were splattered with paint—orange, purple, green, blue, and every other color imaginable.
The man's soft blue eyes narrowed at me as he leaned down, picking something up. It was my brush.
"Thank you so much!" I cried, snatching the brush from his hand. "Yes! I got it back!"
I dove back into the red paint, gripping the edge of the bucket as I surfaced in my room. Coughing and spitting paint, I was covered head-to-toe in red.
"It was a tough journey, but I got it—my favorite brush," I muttered breathlessly.
The door opened, and Emily walked in holding two McDonald's bags.
"Hey, Palva, you want some foo—" She stopped mid-sentence, staring at me with wide eyes.
Her gaze drifted from the red paint covering my body to the floor, now stained with paint splatters. "Is it that time of the month already?"
I stammered, "Oh, um… no, I… if you're wondering where I've been, I was just trying to get my brush out of the paint bucket. And, uh… yeah, this happened."
Emily sighed, shaking her head. "Alright. Get your ass in the shower. I'll clean this up."