I woke up to 99+ unread texts. As per our tradition, I didn’t read any of them before writing a response.

  “Sorry, I was sleeping. Did you say anything important?”

  “You should listen when you’re being spoken to. If you wanna get out of this place, pay attention. You’ve gotta draw a sigil using ink on paper, and then concentrate on it until your focus burns through—like a magnifying glass under the sun. That’ll create a portal back to your house, where I’ve set up the other end of the ritual. I’ve attached an image of what it should look like. If it doesn’t work, try making another one; focusing on the details. It might take some time. But time is all you have, right?”

  “You might be surprised at my recently-acquired calligraphy skills. Something like this would be easy to recreate. Not to brag, but I’ve gotten really good at this kind of thing.”

  “Sounds good, this should be a piece of cake for you. Let me know when you’re finished, and I’ll concentrate on my side while you do yours.”

  I laid back on the floor, similar to yesterday. I never thought I’d be able to get back home, but now, the door was swinging wide open. I could have my old life back. I could cuddle Leo while I watched TV, day after day. I’d have to get a job again, but after so many months of doing nothing, it actually sounded a little exciting. Hell, the start of anything was starting to excite me. How long had it been since I got to eat ice cream? Or since I got to play a video game? Or even listen to music? Real life started to sound like a wonderland.

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  My hand hesitated and trembled, struggling to pick my phone back up. I fiddled around with it, swiping back and forth across the home screen meaninglessly. I was stalling, but in truth, I knew there was only one thing to do. I opened up my texts with Rose again. For the first time, I was tempted to read the seven or so paragraphs she sent since my last message. Not that I really cared what she was saying, my mind just wanted to do anything but what I was about to do. Every part of my body was tense, begging me to stop my fingers from touching the screen. But I used the little willpower I had to keep going.

  Every tap on the screen felt like the tip of a knife digging into my fingers. The pain was enough to stop my breath entirely. To an outsider, this would have seemed insane. Why would I continue to tap the screen, sending jolts of neigh-unbearable pain rattling down my nervous system? To answer that question, the outsider would have to know a little something about language. Each tap on the phone equated to one character being printed on the screen; and more importantly, on Rose’s screen. Multiple characters placed together in a sequence is known as a “sentence” made of “words.” When they’re seen by another human, their seemingly-random sequence turns into meaning. The interesting part is that there’s no way to turn this off. If you know the language, and you see the words, there’s no stopping the thought they represent from entering your mind.

  I knew this well. In fact, Rose taught it to me. All those years of being subject to her parasitic language and life-draining infohazards made it inescapable. But no matter how bad she was, I was about to be worse. I don’t think there was any other sequence of letters, in this language or any other, that could have caused as much mental damage as the ones I sent.

  “I’m not coming back. Sorry.”

  It was only after I had sent the message that I saw the blood smeared across the surface of the screen. The tips of my fingers had been cut to pieces.