The email sat in Eleanor's inbox, radiating a cold, mocking light. "Congratulations! Your article, 'The Shifting Sands of Memory,' is now live on Cerebral Cortex Quarterly, under the authorship of Dr. Alistair Finch." Her vision blurred. She reread it, the words twisting into grotesque shapes. She slammed her laptop shut, the click echoing in the sudden quiet of her apartment. Her breath hitched, her throat constricting as if someone was already there, physically choking her. She paced the small living space, the worn rug doing little to soften the relentless thump of her footsteps.
The phone rang. It was her mother. "Did you see it, honey? Isn’t that wonderful for Dr. Finch?" Eleanor managed a strangled, "Yes, Mom." She could barely keep her voice from cracking. She quickly concocted an excuse and ended the call. The silence that followed felt heavier, pressing down on her chest. She grabbed her coat, not even bothering to look in the mirror. She had to get out.
The biting wind whipped at her as she stumbled through the park. She had to walk and walk until she stopped feeling the way she felt. She reached into her pocket, fingers brushing against the crumpled manuscript of the article. She balled it into her fist. She clenched her jaw, the muscles in her face tightening.