11:54 PM.

I haven't spent a single second sleeping. Or even considering it, for that matter. Not now, not at this time. Though I know her arrival is inevitable, I still fight to keep myself awake, as if my vigilance could somehow ward her off. As if she only exists when I let myself slip.

But no matter how much I resist, every time the clock ticks forward, my eyelids grow heavier. It feels like something is pressing them shut, like a force is squeezing the life from my body. My limbs tremble. My breath turns shallow. I was wide awake just moments ago so why now? Why does my body betray me?

Then, in an instant, consciousness slips from my grasp. Midnight. Of course. No matter what I do, I will always end up here. The same dark alleyway, walls pulsating as though they were made of raw, exposed flesh. The ground slick and glistening with something I dare not name. The air thick with the sickly stench of rot. And her. I hesitate to even call her a "lady," though that is the shape she wears. Her presence is suffocating, her gaze sharp enough to pierce bone. Decaying flesh clings stubbornly to her, her shoulders jagged with what looks like human teeth embedded in rotting sinew. She smiles, just as she always does. But tonight, something is different.

"I'm Mallory," she says, softspoken, Almost kind. I freeze. She has never spoken before. For the past two weeks, she has only stood there, grinning that nightmarish grin, watching me with a patience that frays at the edges of my sanity. But now she has given herself a name. Mallory. Somehow, the sound of it sends a shiver down my spine. I don't respond. And yet, she doesn't waver. Her gaze lingers, her smile unwavering, as though she's waiting for me to return the sentiment. As though she wants me to like her. Ten minutes, I remind myself. Just ten minutes, and I'll be back. At this point, all I can do is pray, if there is a god, for time to move faster, for this hellscape to release me early.

Guilt has never touched me before. Not really. Not during the day. But in these moments, in the seconds before midnight strikes, I am filled with a cold, creeping dread. As if my own mind has turned against me. As if my sins have found a way to manifest in flesh and blood.

I take one last look at Mallorys grotesque silhouette before my vision blurs, the alleyway dissolving into nothingness. Then I wake. Gasping, drenched in sweat, I bolt upright. My breath is ragged, my hands trembling as I fumble for a towel. The moment my feet hit the floor, I wipe myself down, my movements quick and desperate, as if I can scrub the nightmare from my skin. My reflection catches my eye in the mirror. I don't look at myself often. Never have. But now, in the dim light of my room, I find myself staring, dissociating, lost in the face staring back at me. The person in the mirror feels foreign and worn.

The seconds slip by.

This is useless. Pointless. I shake the thoughts from my head, force my limbs into motion, and get dressed. My shift starts soon.