Entry 6 — Scrubbed Raw

Journal of Isla Loren

 

March 22

Location: kitchen window, facing the ocean

Weather: overcast, like gauze over a wound 

Time: 8:02am

 

 

~

 

 

I should probably talk about what happened after my last entry.

 

But instead, I’ll clean. I’ve been cleaning since three-thirty, I think — before dawn. And for days, around sleep. And I’ll continue to clean until I’m interrupted. 

 

The floors smell like vinegar. My raw hands sting. I spent the morning on my knees with a bucket, scrubbing until I couldn’t see my reflection in the wood anymore. On my knees, sweat at my temples, bleach burning the inside of my nose. 

 

I don’t remember much from last night. Only that I left the lights on in every room, like a beacon — like I didn’t trust the dark not to shift when my back was turned. I don’t remember waking up, either. The cleaning just… began.

 

I think I just needed to do something. 

 

Anything but dream of unsettling, fuzzy fragments or lay awake in half light. 

 

 

~

 

 

I haven’t mentioned the end of my last entry, have I?

 

The way the ink dragged. The way it still stains the margin of that page, bleeding through to the next, to this one. 

 

No… but I don’t think I will.

 

I don’t think I can. 

 

 

~

 

 

The waves sound wrong this morning. Not louder — just… too steady, like they’re on a loop. 

 

A reel of film playing over and over again with no variation. 

 

I’ll open the window to be sure it isn’t in my head. 

 

 

~

 

 

Even the wind feels artificial today, like a breath held too long.

 

 

~

 

 

Yesterday I lost half the afternoon to a memory that doesn’t fit. I was standing in the kitchen, boiling water, washing wine cups, when I blinked — and suddenly I was a child again, sitting on the cracked porch of our family home, weaving dried grass into tiny dolls. 

 

My father’s shadow fell over me. I remember the weight of it, not his voice. 

 

Then I burned my hand on the kettle, jolted and yelped. 

 

But here’s the thing: I never made dolls as a child.

 

 

~

 

 

I checked my phone and couldn’t account for the missing time. 

 

I texted Mira — something short, just to feel tethered — but deleted it before she could respond. I didn’t want her to hear the panic in my words. I need to be stable here. That’s the point of this whole thing. 

 

 

~

 

 

I tried to make tea this morning, but the mug I always use wasn’t in the cupboard where I'd left it. I found it in the sink. Dry. So I must have used it. But I have no memory of it.

 

Somehow that unsettled me more than the pacing.

 

Then the knock came.

 

I jumped — nearly spilled the kettle.

 

It was a man I’d never seen wth a limp and bright yellow boots.

 

He waved at me like we were old friends.

 

“Settling in all right?” he asked, grinning. “I’m from two houses West of you. Weather’s been strange lately — messes with the power sometimes.”

 

I said I was fine. I always say I’m fine.

 

He leaned a little, as if trying to look past me into the house. “If you find any of your lights flickering in the middle of the night, don’t worry too much. Happens more out here than in town.” His smile never wavered. 

 

But my lights haven’t flickered.

 

Not once.

 

 

~

 

 

After he left, my feet carried me to the tilted mirror. I didn’t know why at first — I didn’t bring the glass cleaner or the rag. 

 

I just stood there for what felt like an hour, watching my face for signs of… I don’t even know. Something that doesn’t belong to me. Something waiting behind my eyes. Something to shift. 

 

It was too still. I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I blinked, I’d miss something. Like maybe it was watching me, too.

 

I remembered the way my mother used to brush my hair. I used to love the sound of the brush moving through it. 

 

She sat behind me on the couch, tugging gently, then harder, like she was afraid of hurting me but more afraid of doing it wrong.

 

At some point, she said, “You’ve got your great-grandmother’s hair. Sun-touched.”

 

No warmth in her voice. Just a statement. A fact offered like a gift she wasn’t sure how to wrap.

 

I remember giving a hum as a response — afraid to nod and mess up what she was doing, afraid of her quiet backlash, of my father’s passive aggression, like a domino effect. 

 

She braided it after. Tight, neat. Not quite tender.

 

 

~

 

 

I’m writing this now at the kitchen table. The light keeps shifting. Not flickering—just dimming, slowly, then brightening again. As if the house is breathing.

 

There’s a kitchen knife beside my notebook.

 

I don’t remember taking it from the drawer.

 

But I’ll leave it here for now. Just in case. 

 

 

—Isla

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Photo by Alexey Demidov on Unsplash (Free to use under the Unsplash License)

 

Entry 7 — Under The Skin