Inextricable Demons

Though the air was warm and the sky was bright, an unsettling charge hung in the air, its presence like static before a storm. Portia drifted between consciousness and a void, unaware of how long she’d been out. The first thing she registered was the searing heat coursing through her body, as if her blood had turned molten. Her skin prickled and burned, and when attempting to open her eyes, the world around her appeared out of focus. Portia’s body shook uncontrollably, convulsing without her understanding that she was having a seizure. Exhaustion, dehydration, and the relentless heat had overwhelmed her. Coupled with the blunt trauma she’d sustained, her memory was a shattered mosaic, unable to piece together recent events.

She hadn’t realized a car had struck her or that the impact left her bleeding. But the metallic tang of blood emulsified with her saliva, clinging to her tongue as it trailed down the back of her throat. As her vision slowly sharpened, she found herself lying face down on the blacktop asphalt. Having absorbed the sun’s intense rays, it felt like searing hot coals against her flesh. She groaned in agony. Everything ached. A breeze swept across her body. It did nothing to relieve her scorching skin but it carried with it a pungent stench, like rotting flesh. Ascertaining that the foul odor was coming from her, Portia tried to recall when she had last showered. Desperate to pinpoint her location and call for help, she frantically patted herself down, searching for her phone. It was gone. She found herself amidst abandoned factories, their windows broken and boarded up. A few cars passed, but none slowed or stopped to help. The only other signs of life were ivy crawling up a brick wall and tall weeds encroaching the crumbling sidewalks.

Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself to her hands and knees, struggling to stand. A shadowy figure cloaked in black appeared before her, wearing a beaked mask like that of a plague doctor. Feminine hands with dagger-like fingernails rested at the figure’s sides. Through the dark screens in the mask, the figure’s eyes were barely visible, but appeared dark and sinister.

“There is nowhere you can hide where I can’t find you,” the plague-doctor hissed, her voice slithering into Portia’s ears.

“Wh—who are you? What do you want?” her voice trembled.

“I am who I am.” The woman responded cryptically, “You must face the demons that plague you.”

Demons? Portia questioned silently. Fear churned in her chest, mingling with confusion, “Please, just leave me alone,” she pleaded.

For a brief moment, something fearless roiled unexpectedly within her. Without understanding why, she laughed—a sharp, defiant sound. The plague doctor’s eyes narrowed behind her mask, and the two women locked gazes in an unspoken challenge.

Abruptly, the plague doctor lunged, grabbing Portia and dragging her into a nearby building. Her arms flailed as she struggled, but her assailant melted into the shadows. Desperate, Portia gave chase down a dim corridor. She seemed to be running in circles, passing the same abandoned offices. Voices—pained screams and clanking metal—echoed around her. The familiarity of the voices made her blood run cold. She followed the sounds until she found the source, the hair on her arms standing on end. No! Her mind screamed. It couldn’t be possible. She saw herself—two versions—but both faces were her own. They were imprisoned in a dark room, naked and chained together, lying in their own filth. Though they were covered in grime, it did nothing to hide their frail state. Each rib was exposed, every notch in their spines visible. One was curled up in the fetal position, her free arm trying to shield her head. The other kicked and screamed like something feral. Their sunken eyes were wide with terror as they fought for space they’d never find.

Her heart clenched. These fractured visions felt like pieces of herself, trapped and warring, not restrained by anything physical, but by invisible chains of self-loathing and insecurity. No matter how many people told her she was talented, smart, or beautiful, the voices of doubt in her mind shouted louder. Her sense of worth lay shattered, and the fear of failure wrapped around her like iron bonds. The plague doctor had summoned this vision, trapping Portia in the fortress of her mind.

With a nod, the woman snapped Portia back to the street. They were face to face once more. The exhausted young woman turned and ran toward the nearest building, praying she could outmaneuver her pursuer. The plague doctor, undeterred, dropped her heavy coat and followed. Holding a cane, she walked with a limp but Portia knew this wouldn't impede the woman. She seemed to command the elements. The wind picked up fallen leaves and other debris. They swirled ominously around the woman in black.

She fell to her knees, trembling as the storm grew around her. The plague doctor leaned in, black-stained teeth visible through her twisted grin. Dark liquid seeped from the mask’s screen, spilling onto Portia’s skin and pooling around her body.

“This is what’s been poisoning you,” the plague doctor whispered.

The woman’s clawed hand touched Portia’s. Her eyes narrowed with confusion. The gesture was strangely gentle. For a moment, however brief, she felt a sense of calm wash over her—until her curiosity took its place. She tugged at the woman’s mask, revealing a face identical to her own but more weathered, her features sharper, twisted and dark.

Portia gasped. A gutteral howl that she didn't recognize escaped from her diaphragm. She tore herself free and bolted down an alley. The narrow passage seemingly closed in, suffocating her. Panic clawed at her throat as the storm raged behind her, the plague doctor commanding its fury.

Collapsing, she crawled, trying to stay hidden. A realization cut through her terror: these demons, these visions—they were all parts of her—inextricably connected. The only way out was to confront them. But how? She was exhausted, unable to think or move. Darkness crept in as her eyelids closed.

Portia awoke in the corner of her room, cluttered and chaotic. Books lay open, clothes haphazardly draped across furniture, and a shattered picture frame reflected the past. The clanging of chains echoed in her mind. She shivered as she recalled the horrifying image of the imprisoned women. Were they fragments of herself? Hallucinations born from fear and exhaustion?

None of that really happened. It was just a dream.

She pinched the skin on the back of her hand, feeling the sharp sting. Okay, I felt that. I’m awake now.

A sudden gust of wind blew through her open window, and the chill seeped into her bones. Her heart pounded relentlessly. You're home. You're safe now. She told herself.

This is all in my head. I’m in my apartment. The doors are locked. This is all in my head.

She repeated the mantra like a silent prayer.

But at the edge of the room, the plague doctor stood, cloaked in shadows. The space seemed to constrict, walls pressing inward. The mask’s polished surface gleamed under the sickly light from the lone lamp, casting jagged shadows across the floor. Her black dress rustled as she tilted her head, an eerie curiosity in the movement.

“Why do you hide?” The voice whispered, rough and broken, seeping into the silence.

“I don’t,” Portia’s voice trembled, barely audible.

A mirthless laugh cut through the room, and the lamp flickered, casting everything into a suffocating darkness. When the light returned, the plague doctor was closer, her head cocked to one side, studying Portia with an intensity that froze her blood.

“Get out of my room! Get out of my head! Go away!” she shouted.

Portia couldn’t bear to meet the woman’s gaze. Her fingers dug into her arms, nails biting into flesh, grounding her in a pain that felt real. Shallow, ragged breaths filled the room as she shut her eyes tight, hoping the nightmare would vanish. But the steady sound of footsteps crept closer, deliberate and slow.

“Open them,” the voice commanded, resonating through the creaking of the wooden floorboards, the hiss of the wind, and in the tremor of her bones.

Her eyes snapped open, and the plague doctor loomed inches from her face, the beak brushing against her nose. Portia saw her own reflection in the dark, glossy eyes behind the mask—pupils dilated with terror.  The room, the air, everything else disappeared into those eyes and the darkness they seemed to promise.

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

A knock at the door shattered the moment. The room was silent, the lamp’s light steady. The plague doctor was gone, replaced by an aching emptiness. Portia’s body sagged, relief crashing over her like a wave.

“Portia? Are you in there?” A voice called, muffled but familiar.

It was Helene, her friend from down the hall. Portia opened her mouth to respond, but only a shaky exhale escaped. The knock repeated, louder, more urgent. Part of her wanted to ignore it, to let the silence be her answer, but the memory of the beak touching her face propelled her forward.

She unlatched the door and opened it just a crack, peering through. Helene’s concerned face looked back, framed by the warm light of the hallway.

Portia’s eyes drifted past Helene into the long corridor where shadows pooled. Footsteps echoed from somewhere distant. Could be a neighbor, she thought. But in the darkness, she swore she saw a shadowed figure, watching, waiting. A voice, faint and familiar, whispered: You cannot run from what you are.

Was that her voice? Am I losing my mind?

She’s not really there. This is all in my mind.

She silently promised herself, trying to believe it.

“You okay?” Helene asked. “I heard you screaming.”

Portia’s gaze fell to the dark, inky blotches staining her yellow sleeve. Memories of the plague doctor’s black fluid surfaced, twisting her stomach.

“Portia?”

No, no, no, no. That wasn't real. Was it?

“Hey,” Helene’s voice wavered, her eyes wide with concern as she rested a steadying hand on Portia’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Portia lied, forcing a smile that cracked at the edges. “Bad dream. I’m fine.”