PETALS AND RAZORBLADES

When Aira closed her eyes, she didn’t see darkness.

She saw sunlight.

And that terrified her.

Because sunlight meant memories.

And memories meant traps.

She was nine again.

Small feet brushing over warm grass. Her lemon-yellow dress floated around her knees like soft butter, and jelly sandals clicked as she ran across the garden. That day had been her birthday—balloons tied to the porch rails, a cake with strawberry frosting, and laughter that felt like it could hold the world together.

Her mother had set out a picnic blanket. Her father, arms wide, stood waiting with a giant stuffed giraffe behind his back. He wore a paper crown. She remembered giggling so hard she fell into the roses. The petals had kissed her cheeks.

Aira smiled.

For a moment, she felt safe.

But then… something shifted. Like the memory had changed its mind.

The sunlight dimmed. The warmth faded, leaving her skin cold and tight.

The roses—vivid just a second ago—wilted, their petals curling into blackened edges.

The balloons popped, one by one, not with a soft pop, but a wet, meaty burst.

Aira blinked.

Her father was still standing in front of her, but now… his smile had vanished. His paper crown sagged. His eyes no longer sparkled. They stared, vacant. Too still.

And when she reached for his hand—her favorite part of the memory—it was cold.

Not a breeze-cold.

Dead-cold.

She yanked her hand back, gasping.

But it got worse.

The stuffed giraffe in his arms turned its head. Slowly. Mechanically.

Its button eyes cracked open, revealing milky, veined spheres. Its stitched smile ripped down the middle into a snarling black slit full of sewing needles.

It blinked. Once.

“Happy birthday,” it whispered.

Aira stumbled back, heart pounding.

“No… not this one,” she whispered. “Please not this memory.”

She tried to wake herself up, to escape—

But the garden warped around her, trees bending and groaning like bones under weight. The cupcakes melted into piles of pink sludge. The paper butterflies that had once fluttered above began to move—not like decorations, but like creatures stretching after a long sleep.

They grew. Wings elongating, colors bleeding into sickly bruises. Their bodies twisted into something almost human.

And each one had a mouth.

They hovered around her. Hissing her name.

“Aira... Aira... Aira...”

She covered her ears.

“I didn’t want this,” she sobbed. “I didn’t make this…”

But the memory didn’t care.

She turned toward her nine-year-old self, still sitting on the blanket—smiling, oblivious.

And then blood began to drip from the child’s ears. Thin and slow, like syrup.

Her little smile stayed frozen, even as tears carved crimson streaks down her face.

The adults at the party clapped.

They sang happy birthday.

No one noticed the little girl dying in front of them.

---

Aira jerked awake with a scream, hands over her ears.

Her heart beat against her ribs like it wanted out. She was back in her room—back in her real body—but everything felt wrong.

The air was too heavy. Her mouth was dry with a copper taste. Her hands were shaking.

She looked down.

There were faint crescent marks on her forearms.

Nail imprints. Her own. She had no memory of clawing herself again.

“I can’t even keep one memory,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Just one…”

She sat in the corner of her room, pulling her knees to her chest, head buried between them.

It was happening more often now.

She used to be able to control it—block it out. She’d draw to feel safe, to make beauty out of chaos. But even her drawings turned violent now. The shadows she sketched bled. Smiles warped into gashes.

And the memories—especially the sweet ones—were the most dangerous.

Because they gave her hope.

Just enough hope to rip away.

She stared blankly ahead. Her sketchbook lay across the room, pages curled as if they too were afraid to be opened.

“I didn’t ask for this,” she muttered. “I didn’t want to see this. I didn’t choose it.”

But deep down, Aira wasn’t sure anymore.

What if she had? What if this horror wasn’t infecting her mind—but leaking out of it?

The thought made her stomach twist.

And worse… it made sense.

She buried her face again, trying to squeeze the memory out of her skull. But the image stayed—her nine-year-old self bleeding through a birthday smile.

It wasn’t just a memory anymore.

It was a message.

And Aira didn’t know if she was the victim—or the author.

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