The Girl

The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor hum with a sickening, rhythmic buzz. You push open the heavy door to the observation room, and the air instantly feels colder. There she sits on the edge of the tall hospital bed, her legs dangling, swallowed by that bright, crinkling yellow raincoat. She doesn't look up at first; she is staring at her own hands, which are trembling violently in her lap. Her blonde hair falls over her face in thin, limp strands.

As the floorboard creaks under your weight, her head snaps up. Her eyes—wide, bloodshot, and filled with a primal, animalistic fear—fixate on you. Her breath hitches, turning into a sharp, jagged gasp that rattles in her chest. She begins to back away, her sneakers scuffing against the sterile sheets as she presses her spine against the cold metal headboard.

No... she whispers, her voice cracking, a tiny sound of absolute despair. Not you. Please... where is Claudette? what did you do with him?

She draws a deep breat