Shattered Identity

Chapter One:

Claire was deep in thought as she sat on her thin, padded mattress. She looked down, staring at the journal entry she had no memory of writing.

(-I saw her again today, standing in the doorway of Dr. Winter's office. They think I don't know.)

The handwriting was unmistakably hers—the same looping cursive her aunt had insisted she perfect during those silent afternoons after her parents died. Yet she had no recollection of writing these words or what they meant. The blue ink looked fresh, unlike the black pen she'd used all week.

She ran her fingers over the page, feeling the slight indentations where the pen had pressed. Real, not imagined. Another missing moment. Another piece of herself dissolving into fog.

"It's time for medication, Claire."

She looked up to see Nurse Ellis in the doorway, paper cup in hand. The woman's practiced smile never reached her eyes.

"I don't remember writing this," Claire said, holding up the journal.

Nurse Ellis's expression didn't change as she stepped into the small room. "Memory gaps are a normal side effect of your adjustment period. Dr. Winters mentioned you might experience some disorientation." She extended the cup of pills. "These will help."

Claire stared at the small blue tablet nestled among the familiar white ones. "This is different from yesterday."

"No, it's the same. You've been on this regimen since admission." The nurse's tone remained pleasant but firm. "Perhaps you're experiencing some confusion? That's why it's so important to stay consistent with your medication."

Claire wanted to argue but stopped herself. The last time she'd insisted something had changed—the position of her bed, moved three inches to the left overnight—they'd added another therapy session and noted "increased paranoia" in her chart. She'd seen the words when the clipboard was momentarily left unattended.

She accepted the cup and swallowed the pills under Nurse Ellis's watchful eye.

"Group therapy in twenty minutes," the nurse reminded her before leaving.

The door closed with a soft click that somehow sounded final. Thirty-two days at Oakwood Institute, and Claire still flinched at that sound. Not quite a lock, but not really freedom either.

She returned to the journal, flipping through earlier entries. Most of them, she remembered writing—observations about Oakwood, notes from therapy sessions, and attempts to piece together the breakdown that had led to her voluntary commitment six weeks ago.

*Third session with Dr. Winters today. She keeps asking about my childhood. Seems fixated on whether I ever felt like "part of me was missing." Standard therapy question or something else?*

*Bethany visited. Brought photos from Caitlin's wedding. Strange to see evidence of the outside world continuing without me.*

*Dreams about a basement again. Same shadowy figures. Same music box melody. Dr. Winters says recurring dreams often represent unprocessed trauma. But what trauma?*

But scattered throughout were paragraphs she couldn't recall, all written in blue ink:

*They're watching through the bathroom mirror.*

*Dr. Winters knows about the basement. About us.*

*I need to remember before it's too late.*

Claire closed the journal, a chill settling into her bones despite the overheated air of the institute. Either she was losing time—dissociating and writing notes to herself—or someone else was writing in her journal. Neither possibility was comforting.

Outside her window, the immaculate grounds of Oakwood Institute stretched toward the security fence, the world beyond a distant memory. Claire had checked herself in voluntarily after what her aunt called "the incident," when they'd found her wandering barefoot in the woods behind their house at 3 a.m., covered in dirt and unable to explain how she got there.

"It's just for a few weeks," her aunt had assured her, signing papers in Dr. Winters' office while Claire sat numb and disconnected. "Until they stabilize your medication. You want to get better, don't you?"

But increasingly, Claire wondered if coming here had been her decision at all. The memories felt hazy, implanted, as though someone else had signed the forms.

She tucked the journal under her mattress when the clock showed ten minutes until group therapy. The blue pills were making her thoughts fuzzy already, edges softening. She needed to stay sharp if she was going to figure out what was happening.

---

Group therapy was held in a room with windows overlooking the garden—a calculated reminder of the outside world they were all working toward, Dr. Winters always said. Eight patients arranged in a circle, sharing progress and setbacks while staff members hovered at the edges, taking notes.

Claire took her usual seat between Marcus, a middle-aged man with schizophrenia who rarely spoke, and Delia, an elderly woman being treated for depression following her husband's death. Across from her sat the newest patient, a nervous young man named Tyler who picked constantly at his cuticles until they bled.

"Today we're discussing coping mechanisms," announced Dr. Elliott, who ran the group sessions. Younger than Dr. Winters and seemingly more genuine, he was the only staff member Claire felt marginally comfortable around. "Who would like to share a technique they've found helpful?"

While Delia detailed her journaling routine—Claire felt a pang at the mention—she noticed Marcus watching her with unusual intensity. He rarely made eye contact with anyone.

"You see her too," he whispered so quietly Claire almost missed it.

"What?" she whispered back.

"The other you. Walking when you're sleeping."

Claire's breath caught. Before she could respond, Dr. Elliott called her name.

"Claire? Would you like to share your coping strategies with the group?"

All eyes turned to her. She straightened, composing her features into what she hoped was a normal expression.

"I've been drawing," she said, the prepared answer coming automatically. "It helps organize my thoughts."

Dr. Elliott nodded encouragingly. "Excellent. Art therapy can be very effective for processing difficult emotions."

As attention shifted to the next patient, Claire felt Marcus slip something into her hand beneath the edge of her chair. A folded scrap of paper. She concealed it in her palm, heart racing.

When group ended, she waited until she was alone in the bathroom to unfold it. Inside was a crude drawing of two identical women, one in a patient's clothes, one dressed like staff. Both had Claire's face.

Beneath the drawing, scrawled in shaky handwriting: *They don't want you to know she exists.*

Claire stared at the image, the blue pill fog temporarily cleared by a surge of adrenaline. The strange journal entries. Marcus's whispers about "the other you." The constant sense of missing time.

As she looked up at the bathroom mirror, studying her own reflection, a bizarre thought surfaced—what if her broken mind wasn't the problem? What if someone else was writing in her journal? Someone who looked exactly like her?

Back in her room, Claire made a decision as the medication dragged her toward unwanted sleep. Tonight, she would fight its effects. She would stay awake, wait, and catch whoever—or whatever—was writing those messages.

Because if she wasn't crazy, something far worse was happening at Oakwood Institute.

And if she was crazy... then the woman with her face didn't exist at all.