TRUST ME

Illegal orange street lights flickered with every crack of thunder, casting ragged shadows on the overgrown, broken pavement.

Nightclubs and bars that once pulsed with life and laughter were now broken and derelict. The once-proud cinema was nothing more than cinders and ash. A skeletal billboard advertising a forgotten brand of perfume dangled, half-collapsed, from rusted metal poles.

The once-bustling shopping centre was an empty shell, stripped of all colour. Perfume counters and makeup stalls had been smashed to smithereens by law, and the vibrant murals that once adorned the walls had been sanded down to a dull grey.

The gallery, once a sanctuary for the inspired, was now nothing but broken frames, shattered glass, and burned paint pots—names scratched out, erased.

Paper bus schedules, once displayed behind perspex, lay scattered around abandoned bus stops. A flickering screen still showed a bus that would never arrive. Public transport had been banned for names deemed "too vibrant"—the Cherry Red Express, the Bluebird 57 to the Coast.

Schools and universities had long been reduced to pigeon nests, rat havens, and makeshift shelters for the homeless. Libraries had been trashed and left to burn.

A constant fire burned in the city park—a warning that it now belonged to the Nomad tribe, dubbed the Creatives for daring to wear bright colours and sing about freedom.

"Walk. Walk. Walk. Walk." The first-edition AI traffic controllers echoed, still begging for the upgrade that never came. Their smashed screens had become a home for mold, moss, and squirming life forms waiting for their chance to evolve. The little speaker inside crackled, barely audible, stuck in a corrupted loop of old public service announcements.

Cold sweat glued my grey overalls to my spine as I pressed my back against the cobblestone fire exit wall. My breath became shallow in self-defense.

Drifters, moving from city to city, often clashed with the seasoned squatters defending their turf. I had to tread carefully.

The fight was in its eleventh year and showed no signs of stopping—not with Mother in charge.

The AI Laboratory Law Enforcement clunked through the curfewed streets, fueled by synthetic testosterone and programmed lies. Barely human. Metal limbs. Glassy, empty eyes. Twitching fingers eager for violence.

I had to move with confidence, without giving self-doubt even a second to take hold—because that’s when Mother makes her move.

Her thin, deadly stilettos sliced through puddles on the cracked pavement—closing in.

A shiver of dread knifed through me as the sickly scent of lavender and cigarettes filled the air.

"It's Mother. Of course she’s here. The sigma bitch couldn't resist."

Her smooth, practiced voice followed. Her bedside manner—the one that had fooled so many into voting for her time and time again.

"Trust me, darling, I'm your mother. These doctors only want to help you. I want to help you. You're confused. Your mind is not working properly. I know you're scared. These visions can be cured. You have to trust me."

A chill coiled around my spine. Mother almost sounded responsible. Like she actually believed it. Like she cared.

"If you’re worried about your husband... we can discuss things like mature adults. I’ll even let you see him.

You must miss him. Of course, if you don’t want him, I get to keep him. Finders keepers.

Do you really want to take that risk?"

Bollocks. This was a mind game. A trick.

"I am a mature woman," she continued, her voice almost teasing. "I know a few more tricks. Do you really want me to be the one to please him? To tease him? Imagine all the things I could do to him. With one touch from my little red fingernail, I could make him want me. I could make him beg for me, and with my middle finger, well... Do I really have to be that graphic? That’s not becoming of a lady."

My stomach turned.

I had to move.

The grey rain hammered down in thin, icy sheets, threatening to turn to sleet. The wind shoved at me, trying to put me on my back. I had spent enough time there these past few days.

Heavy footsteps splashed through the flooded, abandoned buildings. They were hunting me. Mother wouldn’t get her hands dirty—she never did—but she had plenty of enforcers to do it for her.

Her blood-red nails, however, told a different story.

"No time for scared tears. No space for doubt." I repeated the mantra like a prayer, forcing my feet to keep moving.

I had to find that goddamn painting.

The melting grandfather clock—the only memory they hadn’t managed to scrub clean with their so-called hypnotherapy.

It was the only thing in my Swiss-cheese brain that still felt real.

My boots splashed through puddles of rainwater mixed with engine oil and blood. I ignored the crunching of bones beneath my feet.

Suddenly, I saw it—the bowling alley.

My lungs burned. My muscles screamed. Stopping wasn’t an option.

"You saw her go this way?" A voice echoed through the rain.

"Yeah. Fan out. She’s got nowhere left to run."

My pulse slammed against my ribs. I was running out of time.

The neon sign of the bowling alley flickered—barely alive, a ghost of its former self.

Inside, the scent of mildew, dust, and stale leather thickened the air. Bowling balls lay abandoned in their lanes. The pins, half-corroded and hollowed by mice, still waited for a strike.

And then—I saw it.

The painting.

Neon green and yellow streaked across the far wall—Van Gogh with a punk rebellion twist. A storm, frozen in paint.

But my eyes locked onto the clock.

The grandfather clock.

Its face was cracked, its once-proud pendulum frozen mid-swing.

A sharp breath caught in my throat. My chest tightened as I stepped forward, trembling.

The painting buzzed beneath my fingertips, thrumming like it had a pulse. The cracks widened.

Behind me, the door creaked. I spun, heart pounding.

No one. Not yet. But time was running out.

I turned back to the painting, pressing both hands against the canvas. The world tilted. My breath hitched.

Another flash.

"Trust me. You don’t need to remember everything. Just remember this."

His hand on the small of my back as we danced. His low, warm laugh brushed against my ear.

"There you are, darling."

I smiled.

He stood inside the painting. Cyan eyes full of something deep. Unbreakable. Yet clouded with confusion.

"It’s okay," I whispered, stepping forward. "It’s me. Your wife."

A beat of silence. A flicker of hesitation.

The voices outside grew louder. Footsteps. A door kicked open.

And then—

"Trust me."

His lips met mine—urgent, familiar, electric. A forgotten fire roared to life in my chest.

The world fractured into colour.

And I fell.

Through the painting. Through time. Through me

mory.

Away from Mother.

Away from the lies.

Into something real.