Linda drove her Miata--the Miata-- in a fugue state. She didn't speed. She obeyed all traffic laws. But she was driving by the muscle memory of muscles she shouldn't have had, oblivious to the world outside of the boundaries of her tiny convertible.
The car snaked its way up a long driveway and parked by a large set of ornate doors before Linda let herself out of the car, opened the door to the mansion with a key she didn't realize she had, and skipped up the stairs to her bedroom. To her sanctuary. She could stop there. She could re-charge there. Until she got to her room, the room was all she could think about.
Then the bedroom door closed behind her, and she took three steps towards her large poster bed, and then she collapsed in a heap on top of it. As if the adrenaline which had kept her moving had suddenly drained out of her system all at once. And with it, so too drained the fog that had clouded her mind.
Echoes of Linda's day returned to her. Now physically separated from Sarah's influence, she could remember the feeling of her own magic being sucked away from her, used against her, when Sarah had arrived that morning. She remembered the second incident, when she blacked out while drafting an email to her supervisor, and when her consciousness came back the draft was on Sarah's screen, and Linda was wearing a skirt. Then she remembered a third incident, and a fourth. Throughout the day, when Linda tried to do something unique from what Sarah was doing, that thing was taken away from her and given to Sarah. And in return, Linda was given what she now realized was a part of Sarah's old life.
Linda's heart rate increased slightly as these memories crystalized in her mind, but through controlled breathing she pivoted into an almost meditative state. Eyes closed, she pulled herself completely onto the bed, lay on her back, and took in careful breath after careful breath.
After allowing herself to calm down, Linda carefully brought herself up. What was she to do now?
She heard the front door open, then close, followed by the distinct click of high-heeled shoes on marble. Maybe this was someone who could help.
With more enthusiasm than she'd thought she had, Linda launched herself from her bed, out her bedroom door, into her hallway and down her stairs. And at the bottom of those stairs, she met the surprised face of Susan McMillan.
Both women paused at the sight of one another, each appraising the other slowly. But as soon as Susan was able to read the lines of magic around the form before her, the shocked expression on the retired model's face shifted into something more sly.
"Oh, Linda, what have you gotten yourself into?" Susan just barely held back the laughter in her voice.
Linda, for her part, fought down a swell of shame that she felt in her chest, an instinct long-learned that she should never trust Susan McMillan, and instead built herself the humility to ask, "Can you help me?"
The laughter now freely escaped Susan's throat, deep and satisfying. "You've found yourself tangled up in the girls' games and you think I should help you?"
"I was trying to help Sarah. Your daughter. I don't know how it spiraled into..." Linda clutched at the hem of her top, "this."
"That is why we don't get involved in high school drama," Susan grinned. "I suppose that's just a lesson that I'll have to teach you."
"Teach me?" Linda asked. "I don't need to be taught anything, I just need your help to fix Sarah."
Susan tutted with her tongue. "No. That won't be happening. If I use my magic to help you, then I may get tangled up in whatever you've done, and then I'll find myself in the very same situation that you're in right now, and then where would we be? No, I am confident that Sarah Gibson can find herself a solution without your help or mine."
"Sarah Gibson?"
"Yes, I believe she's married to David Gibson, the ornithologist?" Susan tapped her cheek with a manicured finger, pretending to reminisce. "It's been so long since we've had contact."
"I'm married to David Gibson." Linda growled, desperately trying to control the scream that wanted to come out.
Susan feigned a look of shock. "A high school girl, marrying a man in his forties? Scandalous. No daughter of mine would engage in such a thing."
"You know that I'm not your daughter, Susan."
"Ah," Susan's smile grew wide, "but do you know that you're not my daughter?"
The question hung in silence, as a sense of uncertain nausea arose deep in Linda's chest. A sense of danger surrounded her, like any wrong move might pull her deeper into this trap she'd fallen into.
Susan broke the silence. "Now go upstairs and change into something nice, we're going to meet your father for dinner in ten minutes."
"Yes, Mom." The words left Linda's lips before she'd even realized she was speaking. More muscle memory that wasn't her own. She drew in a quick breath, as if to cut off any more words from escaping, and brought a hand to cover her mouth. Cheeks flushed, eyes wide, she turned and ran back up the stairs, back to her room. To her sanctuary. She quickly shut the door behind her and sank to the carpeted floor.
But it was only a few moments before she felt a need inside of her to get up. A pulling towards her closet. She needed to change into something nice if she was going to be ready to meet her father for dinner.
