They checked my vitals and hooked me to different machines, feeding me saline and medicine. It's strange. What was done to escape was done to keep me here.

Jay was there for a while. When we weren't talking, we sat silently or watched the doctors and nurses tend to me. He'd constantly ask me why I did it. What was it that I saw that drove me over the edge? Even in my journal, no matter how detailed I described that thing, no one could imagine how terrifying it was.

I tried to explain it to him, though.

"I kept seeing this man following me everywhere," I said in a low voice while staring at my hands on my stomach.

"A man? Who?" I picked at the white loose thread on the matching-colored afghan blanket. They took my bangles, necklace, scrunchie, jeans, bra, and sneakers. They told me that anything with laces, thread, or non-breathable material wasn't safe. "Helen?"

"It wasn't a real—guy." I looked at him, and he stared back at me with his caterpillar eyebrows together. I sat up straight, taking a deep breath to prepare myself for the absurd story I'd have to tell him, and I shook my head at the fact that I even had to explain it all.

I told him about my fear of bathing; how I don't sleep as much as I should, and with that extra time, I decided to pick up more hours at the very hospital we were in.

I told him as much as I could about the entity following me even when I went jogging, but the nurse came in to change my saline bag.

He eventually had to leave for what I assumed was work, but not without a hug goodbye.

Aside from that, everything was calm. The machines slowly beeped incessantly, and I could hear the ones in the other rooms doing the same. Sometimes I'd look around and admire how white and clean everything was, which was the polar opposite of my apartment.

Over time, I stopped caring for myself. I went from brushing and washing my hair three times a week to only once every other week, then once in a blue moon. Dishes would pile up more than they'd be clean, but in my defense, my dishwasher stopped working the day I'd moved in.

I took the silence as a chance to shut my eyes, but no matter how long I had them closed, I couldn't sleep.

My mind wasn't racing with thoughts, nor was my heart racing with adrenaline. I didn't feel anxious about anything, but despite being exhausted, I was too tired to sleep.

Then Claire came to mind. I wondered if the house was eerily quiet when she had to go home from the hospital without Kristin. Did she spend nights staring at the wall like she did us? Did she cry at any point? I wondered because, after the divorce, she barely showed emotions; it's like she lost her facial control, and it didn't even come back when she saw Kristin on the floor.

I can only remember her crying once. The weekend before Kristin passed, we had another sleepover, and I woke up needing to use the bathroom. When I went downstairs, I saw Claire talking on the wall phone in the kitchen.

I don't remember what she was saying, but she had tears streaming down and this pained expression on her red face. I do remember thinking, 'Why do people bother getting married if they're not in love?'

Eventually, I was able to fall asleep, and I dreamed about her. She had a blonde, inverted bob and was drinking a cherry margarita on the beach.

I remember the day that dream was based on. My parents had to tend to my paternal grandmother before she died a week after my birthday. Claire and her husband, George, took me and Kristin to Miami Beach.

We took polaroids of turtles and seagulls, collected colorful seashells, and painted the plain ones. The food was one of my best memories. My parents, mainly my mom, didn't allow me or my siblings to eat anything with meat or that was gathered from animal cruelty, so the burger I had on our vacation was one of my biggest secrets. The difference is that I only felt guilty for less than a week.

When I woke up, the door creaked open behind the privacy curtain and before my blurry vision could settle, a thin woman swung the curtain back. Her salt and pepper hair jolted with the sharp movement, and so did I.

I sat there wide-eyed with a straighter back, clinging to the Afghan. Then Jay stepped beside her, and I exhaled a little. 

"What's going on," I asked. "Who's she?"

"You don't remember me," she asked, but it sounded like a statement. She spoke in a whisper as if I disappointed her.

Jay looked at her, and I looked at him, then our eyes met.

When the silence became deafening, I shrugged and pursed my lips. I hadn't had many interactions with people, let alone elderly ones, so no, I didn't know her.

At first, I thought she was a family member, but I couldn't find any resemblance. Her skin had blemishes, laugh lines, and prominent wrinkles under her eyes as well as around her nose and thin mouth.

"This is Mrs. Colston—Kristin's mom," he said and my tense body slumped back into my pillow. The last bit of air keeping me alert and ready to run, flew from my lungs and all I could do was stare at her. "I know you were still—grieving, so I called her and she offered to come speak to you."

"I can't believe you're here." I traded my clear tone for her meek one. She walked to my left and then sat at my bedside.

Her hand found my cheek and despite only being skin and bones, her touch was as soft as velvet. That much, along with her blood-red nails, hadn't changed.

"Helen, I made it my goal to make you, Jane, Abby, Lola, and every other friend of Kristin's know that my home will forever be open to you all." She combed my hair behind my ears by its blonde body, and her eyes focused on the blue tips before returning to mine. "Remember after the burial, I found you run off crying under a tree."

"Yes?" I watched Jay leave the room without a word.

"Remember, I told you not to blame yourself for what happened?" When I nodded, she asked, "Then why, after all these years, do you still act as if it were your fault?"

Her question made me lower my head. I couldn't answer her then, but I blamed myself because I knew that if I hadn't jumped out at her, she wouldn't have died that night. I also hated that I took prom from her.

"Because it is," I told her in a low voice. "You know it, I know it. Jane and Jay know."

"Stop it." She'd always had a commanding voice and since she hardly used it, it only made her more frightening when she did. "Kristin died from a birth defect that would've killed her anyway. Instead of thinking about it as if you caused her time to be shorter than expected, remember how happy she was. You made her laugh during her last moments."

I didn't. Only Jane and I were laughing. If anything, she was smiling but that left as quickly as it appeared. I couldn't tell Claire that, though.

⌦ .｡.:*♡

A.N. So, I'm not too good with past vs present tense and this particular story doesn't help. As stated in the description, this is an epistolary book, so please let me know if I write in present tense so I can quickly fix it.

What're your thoughts on this chapter and characters like Jay or Claire? Do you think it makes sense for Helen to blame herself for Kristin's death?