Fractured 

Reflections

By Bekka Scott

Copyright © 2024 Bekka Scott

All rights reserved.

DEDICATION

  For all the parts of me and you that no one else understands. You are seen, you are valued, and you are loved.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

 My husband and children, thank you for believing in my wild dreams, even when I didn’t believe in myself.

Chapter 1

 Arthur Hall slouched at his desk, the usual office noise fading into a low buzz in the background. His computer screen flickered, each flash making his heart race. His eyes darted across the screen—he wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but whatever it was, it felt close, lurking in the numbers he couldn’t quite make out. The overhead lights buzzed, casting a cold, sharp light on the mess of papers in front of him. He reached for one, its edges curling up as if it had been left there too long.

Arthur blinked, trying to pull his mind back to the task at hand, but the numbers on the screen twisted and blurred, like they were trying to slip away. Something was wrong. Something in those numbers, in the data, was hiding from him. His hands trembled as he typed, his mind racing, wondering if he’d already missed something important.

He couldn’t shake the feeling—something or someone was watching him.

Arthur’s phone buzzed on the desk, breaking the uneasy silence he’d wrapped himself in. His hand shot out, knocking a pen to the floor in his rush to grab it. His fingers hesitated over the screen when he saw the name—Claire. His throat tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t move, just stared at the phone as if it might explode. Then, with shaky fingers, he accepted the call and brought it to his ear.

“Arthur,” Claire’s voice came through, calm but with an edge that made his stomach twist. “We need to talk.”

His eyes flicked around the office, scanning for anyone who might overhear. His voice dropped to a whisper. 

“Claire.”

“Are you alright?” she asked, her tone sharp but laced with something softer, something that almost made him feel guilty. “You’ve missed our last two appointments. You promised, Arthur.”

He swallowed, forcing himself to speak as the words clung to his tongue. “I know. I’ve been… busy.”

The office buzzed around him, phones ringing, keyboards clacking, but it all seemed distant, like he was in his own bubble of tension. He looked down at the mess of papers on his desk, trying to focus on anything other than the knot forming in his chest.

“Is that the truth?” Her question has a cutting edge due to having had too many similar conversations. “Or is it one of your shadows speaking?”

“No, Claire, it’s me,” he insists, fighting to keep his voice level to project the image of calm he so desperately clings to. “Just me.”

“Arthur, I’m scared.” Claire’s words hit him like a cold slap, cutting through the routine and shattering the fragile illusion he’d built.

He squeezed his eyes shut, finding solace in the darkness that enveloped him. “I’m managing, Claire,” he said quietly, each word an effort to push through the heaviness in his chest. “J—just trust me a little longer.”

“Managing?” Her voice cracked, trembling with frustration, pain, and something deeper—fear. 

“You call this managing? You’re shutting everyone out! You’re slipping away, Arthur. From me. From yourself. From reality.”

The word hung between them like a thick cloud. Reality. He didn’t even know what that was anymore. It felt like a distant memory, something he could see but not quite touch.

 “I’ve got to go,” he said, his voice hollow. “Work. I… I’ll call you later.”

“Arthur, don’t hang up, please—”

But he pressed the button, cutting her off. The silence that followed was deafening. He stared at the phone, still in his hand, as if it might ring again. But it didn’t. Claire’s voice lingered in the stillness, her words echoing in his head long after the line went dead.

He let out a shaky breath and tried to focus on the screen in front of him. The numbers swam, refusing to settle into anything that made sense. His hands shook as he reached for the keyboard, the tremor a physical reminder of the chaos inside him.

Arthur was holding on, but just barely.

The phone call hung in the air, like a shadow clinging to the corners of Arthur’s mind. Claire’s voice still echoed in his head—her fear, her plea. The usual office sounds buzzed around him—the soft click of keyboards, distant chatter—but it all felt distant, like he was watching it through glass.

“Arthur!” Gary’s voice jolted him back to the present. He looked up to see his coworker leaning against his desk, all smiles and easygoing charm. “Any big plans for the weekend?”

Arthur forced a weak smile, trying to mask the storm churning inside. “No, nothing special. Just some quiet time at home.”

Gary chuckled, completely unaware of the weight Arthur was carrying. “You need to get out, mate. Weather’s gonna be perfect! Great for a hike or even a barbecue. You know, relax a bit.”

Arthur nodded, though his mind had already drifted away. His eyes fell on a random file on his desk, the numbers blurring like static, offering no distraction from the suffocating thoughts. Gary kept talking—something about a community event—but Arthur wasn’t really listening.

Inside his head, the chaos grew louder. The whispers were there again, a constant hum beneath his thoughts, pulling him deeper into his own spiraling fears. His mind felt fractured, like there were too many voices battling for control, each one louder than the last. He clenched his fists under the desk, trying to steady himself, but it was no use.

I’m not strong enough for this.

The thought wrapped around him, tightening like a noose. He imagined himself as a puppet, his strings pulled by some unseen force, ready to snap at the slightest wrong move

.

“Arthur? You alright?” Gary’s voice cut through the haze, pulling him back for a moment.

“Yeah, fine,” Arthur managed, though the lie felt heavy in his mouth. “Just… tired.”

Gary gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. The touch, meant to be reassuring, sent a jolt of panic through him, like his whole facade might crack open if anyone looked too closely.

“Alrighty, mate. Let me know if you need anything,” Gary said, already turning away, his attention caught by another coworker’s loud greeting.

Arthur nodded, though Gary was already gone. Alone again at his desk, Arthur felt the weight of it all crashing back down. The numbers on the screen blurred once more, the noise in his head growing louder, and he wondered just how much longer he could keep it all from unraveling.

Arthur sat alone again, shutting his eyes tight, trying to will away the chaos swirling inside his head. He imagined the turmoil in his mind as a stormy sea, wild waves crashing against each other, pulling him in different directions. His thoughts were the waves, uncontrollable, smashing into him with relentless force. Somewhere in that storm, he was fighting—fighting to stay afloat, to keep control.

Every breath he took felt like a victory, every beat of his heart a reminder that he was still here, still holding on. “Just maintain,” he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible. It was his mantra, his lifeline. “Maintain.”

Outside, the office buzzed along, coworkers moving, talking, and laughing, completely unaware of the battle raging inside Arthur Hall. He was at war with himself, and no one else could see it.

His trembling fingers hovered over the keyboard. He typed, but each keystroke felt wrong, shaky. The words on the screen blurred, twisting into shapes he didn’t recognize. He wasn’t sure if they made any sense anymore. His breath grew shallow, each inhale feeding the knot of anxiety tightening in his chest.

“Control,” he muttered, the word a desperate plea to the parts of himself that felt like strangers. In the back of his mind there were voices—whispers—trying to pull him deeper into the shadows. They weren’t loud, but they were persistent, each one wanting to take over, to decide for him, to drown out the little bit of sanity he had left.

But then, through the noise in his head, something else crept in. A memory, faint but sharp enough to make him pause. He could see it—sunlight pouring into a small kitchen, warm and golden. Laughter filled the air, light and carefree. For a brief moment, Arthur was pulled back to that time, to that place, where life felt simple. Where he didn’t feel broken.

In the memory, Claire was standing there, her hair glowing in the sunlight, making her look almost angelic. She was humming a tune, one that wrapped around them, tying that moment together like a fragile thread. “You’re off-key,” Arthur had teased her back then, and she’d laughed—a sound so pure and full of joy it had made the room feel brighter.

“Perfection is overrated,” she had joked, her eyes sparkling with mischief. That’s how he liked to remember her—carefree, untouched by the darkness that now seemed to cling to everything. In that moment, they had felt invincible, like nothing could ever go wrong. The outside world had seemed so far away, just a murmur in the distance.

But as fast as the memory surfaced, it vanished, leaving Arthur alone again in the cold, fluorescent light of the office. The warmth, the laughter—it was all gone, replaced by the harsh reality of the present. That world he remembered that perfect moment, felt like something that had slipped through his fingers, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.

Arthur blinked hard, trying to shake off the memory, but it lingered like a shadow. He stared at the report on his computer screen, forcing his focus back to the task at hand. The black letters blurred, then sharpened, as he began typing again, each word a way to keep himself grounded.

With every keystroke, he tried to rebuild the walls around him, closing himself off from the storm that threatened to pull him under.

Arthur sits in his chair, blending into the background of the bustling office like a shadow no one notices. Phones ring, keyboards click, but his attention flits between his flickering computer screen and the pile of papers scattered on his desk.

He keeps his gaze low, avoiding eye contact, shrinking into himself like he can disappear if he just stays small enough. His shoulders hunch forward, as if he’s trying to protect himself from something, though no one around him seems to notice. The air feels thick, filled with the weight of questions he can’t, or won’t, answer.

A soft vibration from his phone cuts through the noise. Arthur reaches for it, his hand calm on the surface, though everything inside him is fraying. Again. Claire’s name flashes on the screen, a reminder of the life he’s slowly unraveling from, thread by thread, one lie at a time.

“Arthur?” Claire’s voice comes through, the concern in it unmistakable. “Don’t hang up, seriously. We really need to talk about last night.”

He can envision her restless steps in their dimly lit bedroom, clutching the phone as if it’s the sole anchor keeping her from drifting away. The image tightens a knot of guilt in his chest, but he pushes it away.

“Claire, please, I am working. Nothing happened,” he says quietly, the words barely escaping his lips. The lie comes easy. “I was just tired.”

“Arthur, you were talking to someone who wasn’t there,” Claire presses, her voice trembling but firm. “Please, you have to get help before—”

“I’m handling it,” Arthur interrupts, his voice sharp, like he’s cutting the conversation short before it can go anywhere dangerous. It’s a lie he whispers to himself as much as to anyone else. Admitting he’s not in control would mean letting everything inside him spill out, and that’s a risk he’s not ready to take.

“Arthur, please—” She starts again, but he’s already hung up, cutting off her voice, her concern, her fear, all of it. The silence that follows is heavy, a void where her words still echo in his mind.

He drops the phone back onto his desk, where it lands softly among the papers and clutter. Around him, the office moves on, oblivious. The buzz overhead fits with the lights casting a sterile glow on the rows of cubicles. Colleagues shuffle past, lost in their own worlds, as the clock ticks relentlessly. People keep talking, typing, going about their day, completely oblivious to the fractures lurking beneath the facade. No one sees the way Arthur is crumbling from the inside out.

He breathes in the sterile office air, each breath an effort to calm the shaking inside him. The day ahead feels like an endless stretch of hours, and he knows he has to keep walking through it carefully. If he slips, if he lets his guard down, they’ll all see it—the fragile state of his mind, the chaos he’s barely holding back.

Gary’s shadow stretches across Arthur’s cluttered desk, cutting a dark line through the messy papers and half-drunk coffee cups. Gary leans in, wearing that same easy smile he always does—bright and carefree, like nothing in the world could ever bother him.

“Hey, Arthur,” Gary says, his voice light, almost too casual. “A few of us are going out for lunch. Mexican place down the street. You coming?”

Arthur looks up briefly, his eyes flickering away just as quickly. “Thanks, but I’ve got to finish this report.” His fingers hover over the keyboard, not quite typing. The words come out smooth, but it’s a lie—one he tells so often, it feels like second nature now.

Gary chuckles, patting Arthur’s shoulder in that friendly way of his. “Come on, mate. The work’ll still be here when you get back.”

Arthur flinches ever so slightly at the contact but hides it. “I really can’t,” he mumbles, his voice low, like he’s hoping Gary won’t push any further.

Gary sighs, stepping back. “Alright, no pressure.” He drifts away, joining the others, who are laughing and chatting as they leave—like a group of birds flying off, leaving Arthur grounded and alone.

The door closes behind them, and the office falls into a dull, almost eerie silence. Arthur’s heartbeat echoes in his ears, loud and fast. The quiet isn’t comforting, though—it’s suffocating. A stillness that leaves too much space for the voices to creep in.

“Pathetic,” one of them sneers in his head, the word slithering through his thoughts. “Can’t even go to lunch like a normal person.”

“Everyone sees right through you,” the same one hisses, cold and sharp. “They know you’re not okay.”

Arthur swallows, his throat tight, trying to block them out. “Stop,” he whispers, barely audible, his fingers shaking as they rest on the keyboard. But the voices don’t stop. They never do.

“Making excuses again?” Another voice chimes in, its tone mocking. “You can’t keep this up.”

“Shut up,” Arthur mutters under his breath, typing random words just to drown them out, to feel like he’s doing something, anything, to keep them at bay.

The voices swell, overlapping now, their taunts becoming a cruel chorus in his mind. “You’re falling apart, Arthur. Losing control. Everyone knows it.”

He presses his palms into his eyes, hard enough to see stars bursting behind his eyelids. The world feels like it’s tilting, spinning, and he’s barely holding on. He focuses on the feel of the cool desk under his hands, the steady ticking of the wall clock—something, anything, to anchor him in reality.

“Get it together,” Arthur whispers to himself, teeth clenched. “You have to keep it together.”

But deep down, he knows the truth. He’s slipping—slower now but slipping all the same. The voices won’t stop, and the chaos inside him is growing, a storm that he’s no longer sure he can outrun.

For a brief moment, everything is still. The storm inside Arthur’s mind quiets, like the eye of a hurricane. But he knows better than to trust the calm—it never lasts. Soon enough, the voices stir again, each one clawing at the edges of his thoughts, fighting to break free from the cage of his mind.

“Let me take control,” one whispers, its voice smooth and dangerous, like silk sliding over a blade. “I can fix this, make everything disappear.”

“No,” Arthur breathes, barely audible, but firm. He knows what happens when he lets go, when he gives them even an inch. Chaos. Destruction.

“You’re too weak,” another voice sneers, sharp as glass. “You can’t even make a decision.”

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut. “Enough,” he mutters, but it’s more of a plea than a command. The word feels foreign, his own voice unfamiliar, as if it belongs to someone else. His chair scrapes loudly as he stands, sudden and awkward, trying to shake free of the rising panic.

“Arthur? You alright?” The question comes from across the room, distant, detached.

He nods quickly, a stiff, jerky motion, afraid that speaking might open the floodgates. He forces himself to sit, fingers hovering over the keyboard as if work will save him, as if the numbers and figures on the screen can anchor him to reality. But the whispers are still there, gnawing at his sanity, relentless.

The ticking of the clock grows louder, matching the frantic beat of his heart. Just as the voices rise again, he senses her before he hears her—Ms. Thompson, moving with practiced grace, clipboard tucked neatly under one arm.

“Arthur,” she calls, her voice clear, slicing through the fog in his head. “A moment?”

His heart stutters, and for a second, everything feels too sharp, too real. He forces himself to meet her eyes, but only for a second. Something about the way she stands there, calm and composed, feels like an omen.

“Of course,” he manages, voice tight and strained. He rises from his desk and follows her to the quiet of her office, every step stiff and mechanical, as if he’s walking through molasses.

“Your recent reports,” she says, flipping through the papers on her clipboard, “they’ve been outstanding. Really impressive.”

Outstanding. The word lands like a stone in his chest. It should make him feel proud, but it doesn’t. Instead, it feels like a spotlight has been thrown on him, and all the cracks in his armor are suddenly visible. Inside his mind, the voices jostle, fighting for control—some desperate to take the credit, others to run.

“Thank you,” he replies, the words hollow. The relief he expected doesn’t come. Instead, there’s only a sinking feeling, as if the ground is slipping out from under him.

Ms. Thompson smiles warmly. “Keep up the good work. We’re noticing your dedication.”

Noticing. That’s the last thing he wants. People noticing means they’ll start asking questions. He nods quickly and slips out of the room, back to his desk, back to the relative safety of the cubicles and the noise of the office.

The hours drag by, each one heavier than the last. Finally, as the sun sets and long shadows creep across the floor, the workday ends. Arthur shuts down his computer, the hum of the office machinery dying down with it. His co-workers offer him passing nods and polite smiles, but he barely registers them. He’s already halfway out the door.

The elevator ride down is suffocating, the fluorescent lights flickering as if they, too, are fighting the darkness. But when the doors open and he steps into the cool evening air, Arthur feels something loosen inside him, something small but vital.

It’s a short walk to his apartment, the city buzzing around him, indifferent to the war inside his head. Once inside, he locks the door, the sound of the bolt sliding home bringing a sense of fragile peace. For a moment, he just stands there, breathing in the quiet, letting the solitude wash over him. There’s a note on the table: ‘I took a late shift; see you in the morning; I love you, Claire.’.

“Good. Safe,” he whispers to himself, the word a small comfort in the empty room. The shadows here know him—they’ve seen his worst, and they don’t judge.

Arthur sinks into his armchair, the familiar cushions cradling his exhausted body. The voices inside were quiet, retreating to the corners of his mind, content to lurk in the background for now. Tonight, he is alone—truly alone—and it’s enough.

For now, the chaos is kept at bay. For now, he is in control.