It started with a date. A really bad date I should have never agreed to in the first place. Dates don’t work out for people like me. For people like me, every date is a bad date. But now, it’s too late. Pacing back and forth, I feel unsteady, like the floor might cave in if I’m not careful; it groans and creaks and gives a little more with each frantic step I take. After five or ten lost minutes, I force myself over to the couch and curl up like a frightened cat. It’s a decision. And decisions can be dangerous.

It was the first date I’ve been on in months, and I might have already forgotten it if not for the story he told. The words he passed along like a virus. The harder I try to shake them loose, the tighter they cling, worming their way deep inside. Awakening something I’ve spent a lifetime trying to forget. His strange, unbelievable story, breathed into life because I insisted. I am to blame. No one else.

Gazing across the room, I study the objects that make this small, cramped space home; each one is fuzzy and less substantial, altered in subtle ways whenever I lean in for a closer look. My desk, the television on its stand, the chair in the corner holding the tree that never grows – everything has its place, yet the edges are blurry like someone took a large eraser and tried to smudge them out. Having slept little more than an hour or so at a time over the past week, perhaps I am what’s been altered. My perception, clouded. It’s possible that none of this is really happening.

But it is, of course. All of it.

Trembling, I stare down at the hands folded across my knees; each fingernail has been chewed down to the quick, leaving my skin pink and raw and covered with flecks of dried blood. I never chewed my fingernails as a child, not even after what happened. The nail-biting didn’t start until college, and I worked hard to overcome it. But later that night, after the date, I found my fingers in my mouth once again, my teeth grinding down, my jaw sore as I mindlessly mutilated what had been so carefully manicured.

There’s a large apple on the desk, just a few feet away. I could feel the weight of it in my hand if I walked across the room to pick it up. But what does it mean if the apple is gone before I get there? Things disappear, inexplicably. It’s happened before. If only I could remember placing it on the desk. No matter how hard I try, I can’t. Such a small, unimportant act. So small maybe I forgot. Did I put it there? Or did the apple just … appear? And if it simply appeared out of nowhere, mightn’t it disappear just as easily?

The darkness plays with my mind. At night, it’s worse. That’s when the darkness grows, gathering its strength, waiting for me to slip and fall. Cold and menacing, and fraught with the same kind of danger, it’s like staring inside the barrel of a gun, knowing it’s only a matter of time before your turn comes.

I close my eyes and force myself to focus on the date, recounting each small detail of what happened in hopes it will keep me grounded. The date marks the boundary between before and after. For that reason alone, I keep it in sight. Everything about the date, mostly normal. Mostly. Certainly nothing to lose your head over.

My head hurts, throbbing with such intense, unrelenting pain I’m having a hard time keeping things straight, but I must go over the details once more. The date, the date. It really happened, I know, but it’s come to feel like there was some other girl there at the restaurant, and I was just a specter floating nearby, watching. All the things from before are like scenes in a movie that I keep replaying, hoping to find my way back.

Even before we met, I knew the date would be pointless. They always are, though I keep trying. It’s what people do – they go on dates, looking to make a connection. Each time, I tell myself it will be different and try to forget that it won’t.

He was different, but not in a way that made the experience worthwhile. But I’m jumping ahead – before meeting, he insisted we have dinner at a vegan restaurant. Vegan, not vegetarian. He took time to explain how hard it is to find good food that meets his dietary needs at other places. I didn’t mind. I have both vegan and vegetarian friends, though none of them are fussy about it. No matter where we dine out, they can always find something on the menu. But I figured I would humor my date since it was clearly important to him, knowing that, even if I liked him, it would never work out. I just can’t get along with someone so inflexible. I like walking through the West Village or Chelsea, stopping at whatever little café that looks most inviting without worrying if it’s vegan, organic, or whatever. Still, I was a good sport. I kept the date, after all.

There’s a gleam of light reflecting off the apple across the room. Even in the dark, I can see the fruit is perfect in every way. It’s like an apple from a painting. But where is that light coming from? I’ve gone to such lengths to keep it out. I’m not fond of the dark, but it’s different here in the living room, where my eyes have adjusted, and the deepest part of night has yet to fall.

He thanked me for being understanding about the vegan thing. No problem, I typed into the message box of yet another dating app. But I hope you don’t judge me for having an occasional burger. When he didn’t respond, I followed up with a smiley face; when he didn’t respond to that, I typed in a question mark. When he ignored that and told me where to meet, I thought it rude but kept my end of the bargain anyway. Isn’t that how dating works – you go against your better judgment and then pay the price? Maybe I should have told him the truth, that I can’t resist a thick, juicy burger at least once a month, served nearly raw with the blood oozing out as I squeeze the buns together. It’s a way to replenish what’s been lost, an absolute necessity.

If I had described eating the burger, the way I relish the feel of grease mixed with blood dripping down my chin, perhaps he would have been disgusted and backed out of the date, preventing this whole catastrophe from ever taking place. In that version of events, I could be relaxing with a glass of wine at this very moment, watching something stupid on television. Reality shows are best. At least I’m not them, I often muse, laughing at the absurdity of such cartoonish people who can’t possibly be real.

Here in this version of events, I wouldn’t dare turn the television on. It’s too bright and loud. To make sure it stays off, I unplugged it. With things as they are, I can’t afford to take any chances. As an extra precaution, I covered it with a large towel, afraid of what I might see otherwise; still, I can picture the blank screen, waiting to be filled. There’s an energy there, buzzing. At night, tossing and turning, I can hear it, the buzz-buzz-buzz like a swarm of angry bees.

As soon as we sat down, he started shooting off all the questions that make dates feel like job interviews: What do you do? Where are you from? How long have you been in New York? Without getting too specific, I answered each one, slowly, using the time to discreetly study his face, his hands, his build. Everything was normal except for his ears. Barely larger than two silver dollars, they were perfectly round and unlike any ears I’ve ever seen. Perhaps some childhood ailment stunted their growth as the rest of his body matured. Such freakishly small ears made him appear unfinished, like a fetus. They looked so rubbery and cold. The thought of touching them made me shiver.

When he told the waiter we didn’t need drinks, I quickly raised my hand. I was in desperate need of a drink. A martini, please. From across the table, my date frowned for a moment before settling back into a smile. He had mentioned something about not drinking in his profile, but it was presumptuous of him to assume I wouldn’t want a drink. It’s so hard to get through a date without a drink.

His scent was off-putting as well. I detected a whiff of old sweat or unwashed gym socks. Maybe he used one of those natural deodorants that never work. Whatever the case, I didn’t like it, and smells are important. It’s a matter of chemistry. Even the mildest scent can carry great power, ushering in a wave of memories one would rather forget. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I wake to the smoky smell of gunfire. It takes far too many breathless moments to realize everything’s fine. I’m here, I’m still here, I insist, catching my breath.

The apple across the room is different. It’s not perfect after all. The spot that gleamed so pristinely before is now dull and brown – a small bruise has turned to rot, caving in. There’s no way I put it there since I’m so extraordinarily careful about selecting apples at the market, picking each one up to examine closely, making sure there aren’t any soft spots. I can’t stand imperfections. If you bring bruised apples home, they’ll soon be rotten and good for nothing but the compost bin.

Never mind the apple. I must focus on the date. He talked about boring things, mostly: a brief stint in the military (which explained his close-cut hair and rigid posture); some sort of job in the tech field working with data; a family business of training service dogs. He seemed so proud of the fact that he could always have his dog sitting by his side when flying. One of the perks of the family business. He winked while describing the deception, bragging about how easy it is to claim his German Shepherd is a service animal. Such a large dog, I thought. Nothing like my little Pepper, the black terrier mix I begged for as a child. When he playfully nipped my hands, I took his floppy ears in my mouth and bit down softly. After he was hit by a car, I buried him at the edge of the woods. My father shrugged, saying it was bound to happen since we lived next to a busy street. Unable to bear the inevitable loss, I never asked for another pet.

Ever own a dog? my date asked.

No, never.

By the time my mushroom risotto arrived, I was halfway through my second martini. He stuck with water. Having had just about enough of this first-date nonsense, I had to go and say something stupid, interrupting the flow of how these things typically play out. It was a decision. A bad one. So, tell me something weird about yourself. Like, the weirdest thing you can think of.

He took a moment to respond. You really want to know?

Yeah, sure. I took another sip of my drink, unsure of what to expect – an odd food allergy? A misshapen kidney? Or maybe an explanation for those awful ears?

A gleam sparkled in his eye. There’s only one thing I can think of. And it’s – it’s pretty out there.

Let’s hear it.

Are you sure?

Yes, tell me.

Well, he started, leaning forward. I can see into other dimensions.

He said it with such a straight face I wanted to laugh.

It’s true, he continued. I’m not a spiritual person. Or, I wasn’t before. He leaned back again. But now, I’ve seen it for myself. Proof that there’s another side. He looked over my shoulder for a moment, as if something had caught his eye. There are many other sides, actually. All around us.

A chill ran down my spine. I reached out for help, gripping the martini glass and forcing it to my lips for one final sip.

Once you know it’s possible, it just starts happening. Whether you like it or not. It’s there, this new knowledge, a secret you don’t talk about. And it never goes away. He paused long enough to take a bite of food. Think you want dessert?

No, no dessert for me. My pleasant martini fog had vanished, leaving me alert and exposed. For the first time that evening, I listened carefully, wondering if I could get away with ordering another drink. And another.

The apple across the room, which suddenly seems so far away, has a worm in it, I’m sure. It was always there, hiding in the fruit.

He explained how it happened the first time. Shortly before her death, his grandmother let him in on her little secret. He thought it was the morphine talking. She’d been sick for a while, and all they could do was try to make her comfortable. She told him about the other dimensions, how they were there waiting to be seen when he was ready. Mirrors are best; you stare inside and wait however long it takes. No one ever waits long enough, that’s the problem. But if you do, something shifts, something opens up and lets you look inside. She told him to try it. She’d prove it to him. Soon.

And then she said she’d see him on the other side. She laughed a hearty laugh that turned into a cough that wouldn’t stop, making him think this was it. But she held on for another two days, though he never saw her again. Not alive. See you on the other side, he repeated. That’s the last thing she said to me. And then I started seeing things, small things. In the mirror, in the window.

Reflective surfaces. I’ve covered them all. My apartment is a place of mourning now. I’m even wearing a dreary dark gown I can’t remember putting on – I’m dressed for a funeral.

So, I thought about what she said, and I stood in front of the mirror, staring inside.

I held my breath, reaching for the drink that wasn’t there.

And I saw her, my grandma. She was way off to the side, but I’m sure it was her. She gave me a little wave, and that was it. I blinked and she was gone.

He looked over, waiting for my reaction. The thing is, I believed him. Every single word. And that’s what terrified me, knowing he was telling the truth.

In the middle of the night, when it’s really dark, stand in front of a mirror and turn the light on and off, really fast, he said. Sometimes you see the outline of something, someone, standing nearby, the trace of something you can’t normally see. He leaned closer, placing his hand over mine. Sometimes you see more.

I wanted to scream.

His cold fingers rubbed the top of my hand. And then, it just starts happening. Everywhere. A shadowy corner, a dark room at night before you turn the lights on. He gazed over my shoulder again. Or right behind your date at dinner. Whatever he saw, he fixed it in place, giving it form. Making it real. He waited, as if I might turn to take a look for myself, but I couldn’t. Just imagine what you might see. He pressed down harder against my hand. So hard it hurt.

I yanked my arm back, accidentally knocking my glass over. The sharp sound of it shattering broke the spell, at least momentarily. I have to go, I said, grabbing my purse and pushing away from the table, standing. He stared up, bewildered. As if he had done nothing wrong. The waiter was approaching, and so many eyes were on me, but I didn’t wait. I couldn’t. I fled, as fast as possible. I can’t remember the train ride home but somehow made it, stopping off at the bar around the block for a drink before calling it a night. I couldn’t face my dark, lonely apartment without another drink. And another.

The rest of the night is a blur of subtractions. I deleted the dating apps from my phone, I opened my computer to shut down all my social media accounts. Not only did I want to be unreachable, but I longed to make myself invisible. That way, I might be safe. Once I finished erasing what I could, I turned my phone off, and the laptop too, and tossed them in the closet.

I stopped going to work about two weeks ago. Days have passed since I last left the apartment, making me wonder what it’s like out there. Then again, I don’t think I ever knew.

I’m at the desk now, hovering over the apple that looks perfectly round and normal. I can’t remember rising from the couch, I can’t remember making that decision, but here I am, gazing down in the dark. I close my eyes and try to stop thinking about all the things I cannot change. When I pick the apple up and shove it in my mouth, I like the texture at first; it’s palpable, it’s real. The juice drips down my chin, the taste so sweet until it’s not. The apple in my hand, my mouth, turns brown and mushy with rot, and I can feel something small and slick crawling over my tongue, wiggling its way down. I swallow it, biting the apple again and again, eating the whole thing, core and stem and seeds and all. I deserve this. All of it.

Drifting down the hall to the bathroom, I know I’m already gone. Duct tape covers the light switch, keeping me from turning it on. I glance at the mirror that’s now uncovered. Everything is unrecognizable. My eyes are bruised, my cheeks have hollowed, my hair is greasy and dark. Staring inside the mirror, I see nothing but a sad, strange girl. I stare for so long, waiting.

And then, there’s that strange smell of something burning again, trickling up my nostrils where it awakens all the things I’ve tried to forget. It’s a smell that stays with you, acrid and metallic, lingering in the air long after the gun is fired. My father was a sick man. The more he drank, the more violent he became. He often threatened us in the night only to apologize the next morning, after the rage subsided. The day it happened, I was kept late at school. If not for that, I wouldn’t be here now, suffocating beneath the weight of all this pretending. Like them, I’d be dead. My mother, my younger brother, and him, my father. Why couldn’t he wait for me? Were there not enough bullets to go around?

This is it, this is what I’ve been waiting for, it’s time. I can’t decide what scares me most: seeing them again after all these years or finally realizing there’s nothing left to see.

I stare for so long, waiting patiently, like a good girl. I blink and blink and blink some more. The early morning light starts emerging outside, slowly pushing away the dark. Leaning forward, I tap my head against the cool surface of the mirror. Tap, tap, tap – it’s a knock, it’s a prayer. It feels nice, so I press my head against the mirror even harder, holding it there as the pressure mounts. It can’t go on like this much longer without breaking. That would be nice, the glass shattering, the blood dripping down, warm and wet.

But then, something moves in the corner behind me, causing this world to shift out of focus.

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