Green Turned Blue
... or did it?
The first thing I noticed was the mug. It was always dark green, chipped at the handle, sitting on the second shelf. Today, it was blue—smooth, with no sign of wear. I stared at it for a long moment as the shift felt subtle yet unsettling.
Image by Mathieu Stern on Unsplash
Did I misplace mine? Swap it out without thinking? The mind does that sometimes, doesn’t it? Makes little errors.
My mind scrambled for reasons, but none came. I brushed it off with a shrug as I went on to make my coffee and took a seat at the table, though a flicker of tension buzzed beneath my skin. I reached for my phone to distract myself, but the screen stayed locked.
My password didn’t work.
My fingers danced across the numbers again, slower this time. It didn’t unlock. I swallowed hard as my fingers hovered over the numbers. I was sure—positive—it was the right code.
Maybe it was just tiredness from not sleeping well last night.
I’d been having that dream again, the one where everything felt familiar but wrong, where people were whispering things I couldn’t quite hear, and I was lost. I’d woken up in a cold sweat, but I hadn’t the chance to mention it to Mark as his side of the bed was empty and cold by the time I awoke. I glanced at the clock. He would already be at work, though I couldn’t quite remember hearing him leave this morning.
He never left the house without waking me to kiss him goodbye, right? Right?
Shaking off the creeping sense of unease and building frustration at the questions in my head, I moved to the bathroom, hoping a shower might clear the fog clinging to my mind. However, as I reached for the towel—my towel—I froze.
It wasn't mine.
The unease tightened its grip on me as I realized it wasn’t the same one I’d used yesterday, the color was off.
Wasn’t it white before? I questioned myself as I stared at the towel which was a muted beige, like something left in a hotel.
Maybe Mark had changed it? I nodded my head, agreeing with the logic in my head, but my gut didn’t buy it as he would never swap something so trivial without telling me.
Something felt off, but as I stepped out of the bathroom, I tried to convince myself it was nothing. However, as the day stretched on, the small differences accumulated. A slight shift in the layout of the living room, the way my favorite chair was angled, or the fact that the picture of my parents on the mantel was now a picture of a couple I didn’t recognize.
By mid-afternoon, I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I called Mark’s office, just to hear his voice, to ground myself.
But when the receptionist answered, she hesitated before asking the dreaded question: “I’m sorry, who are you looking for?”
“Mark. Mark Jennings. He works in accounting.” I replied, swallowing the unease building in my throat.
There was a long pause. “I’m sorry ma'am, there's no one by that name here.”
I hung up, cold sweat slicking my skin as I thought the joke expensive and tried his cellphone next. The voice on the other end wasn’t his.
“Wrong number,” a woman said flatly, before hanging up.
I looked around the living room, my heart thudding in my chest. Everything in the house seemed to tilt as I put the phone down. The walls seemed to close in on me, the air suffocating as the room seemed smaller. I grabbed my keys, ready to get out—clear my head—but when I reached for the door, my hands froze.
There, on the small table by the entrance, was a note. I didn’t recognize the fancy paper, but the handwriting was undeniably mine.
"You’re not where you think you are. It’s too late."
My heart thudded violently in my chest. I snatched the note up, my fingers trembling as I re-read the words over and over.
I didn't write this. Did I?
Suddenly, the phone rang, its shrill tone piercing through the thick silence and causing me to nearly jump out of my own skin. I picked it up, my voice shaky.
“Hello?”
Silence on the other end. Just the faint sound of breathing.
“Who is this?”
The line clicked dead.
My stomach churned. I backed away from the door, clutching the note in my hand like it was a lifeline. I needed to get out, but every time I reached for the door, something in my brain screamed not to. It was like a barrier I couldn’t push through.
Was this a nightmare? Was I still asleep? How can I even be in a nightmare and be aware that I am in one?
I glanced around the house—my house—panic clawing at my throat as I realized something else had changed. The photos on the wall. All the faces were blurred now, unrecognizable. I stumbled back, racing to the bedroom as my heart hammered in my chest, desperate to find something familiar. But even my reflection in the mirror looked... wrong.
I grabbed at my hair, my face, trying to pull some sense of reality back into focus, but I couldn’t seem to. Right at that moment, I heard it. A voice, low, almost a whisper, but cutting through the suffocating silence.
“You’ve been here for a long time, Claire. Too long.”
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Do you think Claire's losing her grip on reality, or is something darker at play? How do you think Claire’s story will end? What’s your theory? Drop them in the comments. Also, ensure to read and upvote this post if you liked it or it intrigued you.
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Yours Truly,
CeeJhay
