Chapter 6: The Needle Knows I held the syringe in my right hand. The knife still sat in my left. Cold metal against my palm. The label said “Remember.” I didn’t know what that meant. I didn’t know if it was a command or a warning. I didn’t know if it would help me or kill me. I just knew I had to do something. The counter hadn’t moved. The room hadn’t changed. The voice hadn’t come back. I was stuck. Again. I looked at the syringe. Clear glass. Silver cap. The label was handwritten. Neat letters. I’d seen that handwriting before. I didn’t know where. But I knew it. Like I knew the voice. Like I knew the woman in the photo. Like I knew the boy in the other photo. Like I knew the hospital bed. Like I knew the cut on my hand. I didn’t remember any of it. But my body did. I pressed the syringe against my neck. Felt the cold tip against my skin. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t hesitate. Not really. I just did it. Pushed the needle in. Felt the pinch. Felt the burn. Felt the liquid slide into me. I didn’t close my eyes. I didn’t look away. I watched the plunger go down. Watched the glass empty. Watched my skin turn red around the needle. I pulled it out. Dropped it on the floor. It clattered. Loud. Too loud. I didn’t care. The room pulsed. Just once. The walls moved. Not like doors. Not like panels. Like lungs. Like they breathed in. Sucked everything toward the center. The air. The light. The sound. Me. Everything bent inward. Then stopped. Frozen. Like the counter. Like my breath. Like my thoughts. I stood there. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t think. Just waited. The intercom crackled. Not the cold voice. Not the warm one. This one was mine. “You didn’t leave her to protect her. You left her because you broke her.” I didn’t react. I didn’t argue. I didn’t deny it. I just stood there. Listening. Breathing. Waiting. The counter jumped. From 227 to 217. Ten breaths gone. Just like that. No warning. No question. No choice. Just gone. I looked up at the ceiling. Nothing there. Just white panels. Just lights. Just silence. Then a panel slid open. Smooth. Quiet. No warning. Something dropped. Hit the floor with a soft thud. I looked down. A child’s shoe. Small. Brown. Scuffed at the toe. The laces were frayed. The heel was worn. The sole was cracked. And the inside was soaked in old blood. Dark. Dry. Crusted. Like it had been there for years. Like it had been waiting. I didn’t pick it up. I didn’t touch it. I just stared at it. The room didn’t move. The lights didn’t flicker. The air didn’t thin. The counter stayed at 217. The voice didn’t speak again. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. I just looked at the shoe. And waited.