I open my eyes slowly, the darkness creeping away like an old memory, chased and consumed by the harsh light of day. The crusts fall from my eyes, the world around me still blurred and distant. Sunlight spills in through the cracked blinds, its sharp beam making my body protest with every movement. Every muscle feels as if someone had stabbed me a thousand times. The smell of sweat—thick and sour—lingers, a reminder of the long, tortured sleep I've just escaped.
I can barely piece together how I ended up here, lying in the ruins of another forgotten night. My throat is dry, my mind fogged, and there's a pounding throb behind my eyes. The air feels suffocating, thick with the stale remnants of my thoughts, the weight of every unspoken word pressing on me. I think back to yesterday, the endless loop of broken moments that have become my reality. And still, I wonder, what have I done to deserve this nightmare?
Born on Earth, trapped in a loop of my own making, until I die—either from age or something worse. Then I'll be judged. But isn't this world just one big cruel joke? When I was young, I wore a mask, one that blinded me to the truth. Everyone smiled. Everything seemed normal. But I've learned that was all a lie.
As I grew, I realized what my father had been, before he gave up his life in some reckless attempt to redeem himself. He was an alcoholic.
Every time he drank, every time something went wrong, he'd explode. His eyes would burn with rage, wild like a storm at sea. His hands—huge, claw-like—would close around my throat. The stench of whiskey and anger would choke the air between us, suffocating me. He thought he was a god. Untouchable. But now he's gone. Forever lost to the darkness he let consume him. A victim of his own battle. Now, he serves his eternal punishment, swallowed by the very thing that once lived inside him.
I focus on my hand, trembling as I hold it up. A shard of broken glass is embedded in my skin, glinting like a cruel reminder. Blood drips down, dark and thick, like ink on a torn page. It feels almost unreal, like I'm watching someone else bleed. PTSD. It's always there, lurking just below the surface, waiting for me to break. But it's not just my father. It's the wreck. The crash that killed my mother. The universe itself, choosing me as its punching bag. It's like I was born to suffer.
No pill can make me forget.
I look around—the room feels like it's closing in on me, suffocating. One window, one flickering streetlight outside, the empty space surrounding me. No one else. Just me. The last one left in this silent world. I reach for the window, my hand touching the cool glass, feeling the thin barrier between the outside world and my prison. A bitter realization settles over me like a cold gust of wind. No one understands this. This isn't just some bad dream. This is a curse, an endless torment. The demons inside me—they're worse than any sickness. Worse than any virus known to man. They feed on my pain, growing stronger with every day.
Every night, I pray. I kneel in silence, begging for something to change. But there's no answer. Not one that's real. I want to believe, want to think there's something greater out there, something to hold on to. But it's hard when you feel like you're hollow inside. Maybe I haven't given up yet. Maybe I'm still fighting—just in a way no one can see.
My thoughts race again. No escape. There's no exit from this mind. I try to breathe, but it only makes everything worse. Each breath is a struggle, a battle. Every thought, every memory—it's all wrong.
Schizophrenia. ADHD. Bipolar disorder. Sociopath. Anxiety. Depression. Paranoia.
I know what people think when they hear that list. I know what I think. That I'm broken. Not just cracked. Shattered. I wish I could be free of these chains, but they're wrapped so tightly around my mind, I can't remember what it was like before they took hold.
A knock.
Soft. Delicate.
It doesn't come from the world around me, but from inside. Inside my head, like a whisper trying to claw its way out.
"Jas, are you okay in there?"
I freeze. The voice. It sounds like my mom. But she's gone. I saw her die in that wreck. Her voice was silenced years ago. And yet, there it is again, clear as if she were standing right behind the door. My heart skips, my chest tightens. I want to scream, to tell the voice to leave, but my throat is closed off, my voice caught somewhere in the dark.
A chill runs down my spine.
The knock comes again, louder this time. More insistent.
It's like the voices in my head are becoming real. My past, my pain, everything I've been running from, is pushing through the cracks. I can't move. Can't scream. Can't hide. All I can do is listen.
They've come for me.
I sit there, paralyzed, staring at the door, my pulse pounding in my ears. My demons have taken shape. And I don't know if I'm ready to face them.
Another knock, louder this time.
I get to my feet, my legs shaking beneath me. Each step feels like I'm sinking deeper into the floor, like gravity itself is turning on me. I reach the door, my hand trembling as I grip the knob. The moment feels too heavy, like everything is about to change.
I twist the knob slowly, painfully. My breath hitches. What am I expecting? The figure? The ghosts of my past? The guilt?
I open the door.
Nothing.
The hallway is empty. Shadows stretch across the walls, long fingers reaching toward me, but there's no one there. The knocking stops, replaced by an eerie silence. The air hangs thick with uncertainty, each breath I take seems louder than the last. Was I wrong? Is this just my mind playing tricks on me? All these voices, all this pain—how much of it is real?
And then I realize something.
It doesn't matter. It never did.
None of it will ever go away. The memories, the trauma, the guilt—they'll be with me forever. The ghosts I carry will never leave.
But maybe, just maybe, that's okay.
Maybe I'm meant to face them. To live with them. To survive, even if that means existing in this fractured reality until the end.
I close the door softly behind me, leaning against it as my breath steadies.
And then, from the darkness, one final knock.
This time, I don't move.
This time, I don't need to.