The necklace trembled in my hand, the faint R etched into its heart pendant staring back at me like an eye that wouldn't blink. Raisa. Her name echoed in my skull, louder than the dripping, louder than the voice from the speaker. I pressed the pendant to my lips, the metal cold and unforgiving, and closed my eyes. If she was closer than I thought, like the voice said, then she was here—in these fragments of my mind, waiting for me to find her.
I sank against the wall, the concrete rough against my back. The neon light buzzed overhead, its flicker syncing with the pulse in my temples. Three hours, maybe? I'd lost track, but the weight of time pressed harder with every breath. I needed her—needed to know who she was, what she'd been to me. The memories were there, jagged pieces of a mirror I couldn't fit together, reflecting her in flashes of light and shadow.
The first came softly, like a breeze cutting through the storm. Raisa sat across from me, a wooden table between us, her long hair spilling over one shoulder. The room was dim, lit by a single lamp that cast her face in gold. She was beautiful—not perfect, not polished, but real. A small scar curved above her left eyebrow, barely noticeable unless you knew to look. Her hands moved as she talked, quick and alive, shaping words I couldn't hear. Then her eyes met mine, green flecked with hazel, and she smiled—a smile that made the air feel lighter. "You're too quiet tonight, Lukas," she said, her voice low, teasing. I'd laughed then, I think, a sound that felt foreign now.
The memory shifted, pulling me somewhere else. We were outside, the air thick with summer heat. She walked ahead of me, barefoot on a dirt path, her dress swaying with each step. The river was close—I could hear it, a steady murmur behind the trees. She glanced back, her hair catching the sunlight, and beckoned me with a grin. "Come on, slowpoke!" she called, her voice bright, daring. I'd followed, my chest tight with something I couldn't name—want, maybe, or fear of losing her. She stopped at the water's edge, dipping her toes in, and turned to me. "It's perfect," she said, and for a moment, it was.
I opened my eyes, gasping. The room snapped back—cold, gray, suffocating. My hand tightened around the necklace. That Raisa—alive, laughing—wasn't the one the voice wanted me to confess about. The speaker had said she'd begged me to stop, that I'd betrayed her. I shook my head, trying to hold onto the warmth of her smile, but it slipped away, drowned by darker waters.
The speaker crackled, right on cue, as if it knew I'd drifted too far. "She gave you everything," it hissed, the words sharp and accusing. "And you took it all." My stomach twisted. I saw her again—the riverbank, night this time, the water black and restless. She stood close, too close, her hands gripping my arms. Her eyes weren't bright anymore—they were wide, wet, searching mine. "Lukas, don't," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Please, don't do this." Do what? My hands moved in the memory, reaching for her, but the scene cut off, leaving only the echo of her plea—and the blood that always followed.
I lurched to the table, grabbing the pen. She gave you everything, I wrote, the words spilling out fast. And you took it all. My chest heaved as I stared at them, the ink bleeding into the paper. What had she given me? Her trust? Her love? I pressed my fingers to the scar on my arm, the one she'd touched in that quiet room. Had she known me—really known me—beneath whatever I'd become?
Another memory clawed its way up, unbidden. Rain again, harder now, hammering the ground. We were in a car, the windshield blurred, wipers slashing uselessly against the downpour. Raisa sat beside me, her hands twisted in her lap, her face tight with something—anger, fear, I couldn't tell. "You don't have to do this," she said, her voice barely audible over the storm. "We can stop. We can go back." I'd gripped the wheel tighter, my jaw set, and said nothing. She reached for my hand, her fingers cold, and I flinched away. The hurt in her eyes cut deeper than any blade.
I dropped the pen, my breath ragged. Go back where? Stop what? The pieces didn't fit—laughter by the river, pleading in the dark, rejection in the rain. Who was she to me? A lover? A friend? A stranger I'd destroyed? I picked up the necklace again, tracing the R. "Raisa," I said aloud, testing her name against the silence. It felt like a prayer, or a curse.
The speaker buzzed once more. "She loved you," it said, softer now, almost mournful. "And it wasn't enough." My heart stopped. Loved me. The words sank in, heavy and final, pulling every memory into sharper focus. Her smile in the lamplight, her hand in mine by the river, her desperation in the rain—they all carried that weight. Love. Had I loved her back? Or had I—
The blood flashed again, brighter, thicker, coating my hands as she crumpled to the ground. I yelled, slamming my fist into the table, the pain jolting me back to the room. "No!" I shouted. "I didn't—I wouldn't—" But the doubt was there, gnawing at me. The voice knew too much, saw too much. And I didn't.
I scrambled to the paper, writing over my earlier words: She loved me. And it wasn't enough. The pen tore through the page, leaving a gash. I stared at it, my vision blurring. Tears? Sweat? I didn't know. "Raisa," I whispered, my voice breaking. "What did I do to you?"
The dripping sound swelled, a chorus now, filling the room. I stood, staggering to the door, pressing my hands against it. "Let me out," I begged, quieter this time. "Let me find her." The steel stayed silent, cold. I slid down, the necklace still in my fist, and let the memories flood me—her laughter, her tears, her blood—praying one would tell me the truth.
But the truth didn't come. Only the speaker's static hum, and the weight of her love I couldn't repay.