⚠️ Content Warning
This story deals with emotional trauma and suicide attempts without depicting them explicitly or idealizing them. These themes are handled with sensitivity and without glorification; the narrative purpose is to show their consequences, not to promote them.Sensitive readers are advised to proceed with caution.
If at any moment you relate to the protagonist's thoughts or are going through something similar, please seek support as soon as possible: talk to someone you trust or reach out to a professional. You are not alone.
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My lungs inhale sharply, forcing air back into them, and my body straightens. The numbness still dominates me, but the first thing I notice is the absence of physical pain. My mind can't make sense of it.
When I scan the room, I'm met with a foreign place. The soft light filtering through the curtains illuminates the antique furniture filling the unfamiliar white space. It's definitely not a hospital. The air carries a sweet scent of old wood and dried flowers. Everything looks like something from a painting—one that could shatter with the slightest sound, thanks to the absolute silence ruling over it.
I look at my hands—or what should be my hands—because my skin is darker than before, and they're so small. What the hell? My arms are tiny, and nothing about them feels like mine. Blue strands of hair fall into my vision, long and shiny, so I yank them until pain shoots through my scalp. I don't even have long hair, much less blue hair. A knot forms in my throat as I throw off the sheet covering me and lift the white nightgown, only to find small legs with darker skin. This must be some kind of delirium. When I try to move them, this strange pair of legs moves with me.
Confusion threatens to swallow everything, but something inside me pushes forward. I spot a mirror in the corner, and my feet carry me toward it almost against my will. I stumble over my own steps, pain spreading through my small body, but I don't stop.
When I finally reach the mirror, I fall back in shock. A little girl stares at me. She's genuinely pretty, but her larimar-colored eyes are so wide they look like they might fall from their sockets. My hands tremble as I touch the glass, trying to understand the impossible. It isn't a window nor a distorted reflection; it's truly a mirror. When the child's eyes lock back onto mine, reality twists violently. The one reflected is me, but… I can't be her!
At that moment, I hear someone enter the room. Rapid footsteps echo across the floor.
"Young lady, you're awake!" a woman shouts in astonishment. She approaches hesitantly, her eyes scanning me up and down with a critical expression, as if she could decipher something hidden inside me.
"I should report this immediately," she mutters to herself before reaching me. Without another word, she turns and rushes out of the bedroom, offering me not even the slightest help.
I can't even get up from the floor. The cold tiles against my skin anchor me to this body that isn't mine. It's the only thing that feels real, and yet so alien. The terrified child staring back at me from the mirror can't possibly reflect what's happening. Seconds stretch—or maybe they collapse—and my mind fails to process any of it. My heartbeat grows so loud it drowns out everything, even my thoughts. I feel like I'm falling, with nothing to break the descent.
Suddenly, two women enter the room. They speak, but their voices are only buzzing noises; everything is a deafening roar, as if my chest had exploded. I'm dragged onto the bed and covered like a small child, though their hands are anything but gentle; all I sense is coldness.
An older man approaches my side, shining a small lamp into my eyes. He speaks, and although I can hear the words, their meaning slips away.
"Sorry… what did you say?" I manage to ask, trying to focus my mind on his voice.
"Well, you can talk. Can you tell me your name?" he finally asks.I wish he hadn't, because even though I know who I am, this body isn't mine. This isn't my body!
"Well?" he presses impatiently. His frown deepens as my panic grows.
"I… I don't know," I whisper, trembling.
"Do you know where you are or what year it is?" the old man continues in a monotone voice.
"No, I don't know anything. Nothing!" I answer, frustrated. But this doesn't seem to bother him, as if all this madness were merely an inconvenience.
He keeps asking questions. I try to reply, but my mind won't process anything clearly. At some point they give me something to drink, and before I realize it, I'm alone again. Exhaustion wraps around me; my eyes can't stay open, and an unnatural sleep pulls me under.
When I awaken, the sunlight has vanished. Nothing has changed, but I feel calmer. The child's reflection hasn't disappeared, but at least she doesn't look as terrified. Though discomfort lingers, everything feels like a costume forced onto me.
My thoughts drift toward what I left behind. What happened to my real body? Are the people who loved me suffering now? That idea tightens my chest; the air enters with difficulty, as if this small body wasn't built to hold such thoughts.
I need to stop torturing myself, to stop trying to understand everything. Death was supposed to promise peace—a complete nothingness.So why am I still here, suffering? Why am I being dragged into this absurd theater that makes no sense?
I walk to the balcony doors and step onto the small terrace. The darkness hides most of the surroundings; I can barely make out some distant trees. I think there's a wall at the far end. We must be in some remote place. The only visible lights come from the building itself, which looks like a blend of classical architecture.
But the most important thing is that I am standing at a great height—maybe seven or eight floors up. It's hard to tell in the dark. At least in this, luck seems to be on my side. The irony draws a hollow, bitter laugh from my throat. The sound is unsettling, especially coming from the voice of a child. I stop thinking altogether and throw myself forward from the balcony.
I think I feel pain—sharp, crushing pain… then emptiness swallows me.
I wake again, and this time I'm certain I feel something: pure agony. Lying on the hard ground, I try to move, but I can't—not until my head twists with a crack that sends a wave of pain down my spine. I try to scream, but I choke, until the pain finally fades and I manage to take a ragged breath. I touch whatever I can with my hands and feel blood, not knowing where it comes from. When I pull my hands up, they're drenched in dark red. Something shifts inside me, as if an animal were devouring my insides.
A scream tears out of me as my dislocated knee snaps back into place. It's as if the pieces of my body, upon reawakening, decided to return to their rightful positions with spite. Unable to believe it, I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. I don't know how long I endure it all. When I come to, my hands are clean. I feel weak and dull pain throbs faintly. Aside from that, I'm fine.
I look for wounds, but there are none. It's almost as if I never jumped from the balcony. But if I didn't, how am I here, lying on the ground outside?
Everything seems blurred, like I'm stuck in a nightmare I can't wake from. I stand in the dimness and wander, searching for an entrance. Eventually, I spot two men standing at attention near one of the doors. They're wearing some kind of retrofuturistic uniform—simple yet imposing. I approach slowly. They glance at me from the corner of their eyes, then stare straight ahead without moving.
"I'm lost," I whisper, feeling as fragile as my voice.
"At your service, young lady," one of them answers, bowing. The other follows suit.
"I just need to return to my room," I say.
The two exchange a silent look I can't decipher.
"I will guide you, young lady," the first man says, his tone still formal.
I follow him through the enormous mansion. We pass through rooms with an undefined style—somewhere between Victorian and medieval. Everything is lit by electric lamps. Still, they seem to avoid elevators, because we climb every floor by stairs. The man remains silent the entire time, and we barely cross paths with others. Those few we meet don't look at us or question anything.
My legs tremble with exhaustion. I'm about to ask him to stop when he finally halts before a door. He opens it with ceremonial precision, revealing the room I recognize instantly. He bows again and gestures for me to go inside. I breathe deeply, relieved to return to something familiar—though warmth is the last thing I feel. I thank him. He simply closes the door behind me.
I find the two women from before whispering in a heated discussion. They freeze when they see me. Their eyes widen, filling with alarm, and they bow like the guards had. I wait for them to say something, but they don't. They simply leave with their heads lowered, leaving behind a table filled with steaming food.
Time passes slowly, and once I confirm they're not returning, a hollow urgency settles in my chest. I begin rummaging through the room, digging through childish trinkets and unfamiliar objects that make no sense to me.
With trembling hands, my fingers finally touch a pair of cold, sharp scissors waiting to be used. Without hesitation, I use them. Pain erupts in my arm, and for a moment, everything else disappears. Only the pain is real. I don't know if it's from my arm or from my being, but it might be the only tangible thing left in life or death. Blood begins to ooze lightly. I wait for something to happen—for something to change—but nothing does.
"What the hell is happening?" I whisper. A thousand questions crash into my mind: What if I've lost my mind? What if this is real? What if I'm hallucinating? What if I was always this body and not the other? What if I made it all up?
I stare at the bleeding cut as if it were a friend who betrayed me. But I'm not satisfied. In a desperate outburst, I cut deeply into my left hand until I reach the veins. The burning flesh centers me in the present, but it soon dissolves into raw agony as blood begins to flow. When nothing changes immediately, I tear a piece of sheet, shove it into my mouth to bite down, and dig the scissors into the wound again until the bleeding intensifies. I try to stay awake—but fail.
Then, unsurprisingly, a dim light slips through my eyelids. I wake again, as if nothing happened. I stare at my arm in desperation: no wounds, no trace of the suffering I just endured. Only faint bloodstains remain on my dress and the corner of the carpet. Minutes later, even those vanish. Nothing remains. Except for the torn piece of sheet, everything else is gone.
My mind runs through every impossible explanation until one rises above the rest—and it makes me laugh, sprawled on the floor of this unfamiliar, lonely room.
Maybe there is a god.A god who enjoys cruelty.He's crafted a personal hell just for me:a body that cannot die and a broken mind trapped inside it.A mind that no longer wants to live, but can do nothing about it.
Laughter bursts from my throat like a dry animal roar. It's a mockery of the absurd, a muffled scream at a god who doesn't exist. But the laughter soon shifts into something else—ragged sobs that shake my small body. Thick tears streak down my cheeks, and I collapse onto the floor as if gravity itself demanded payment.
If they changed my body, why didn't they change my mind?What did I do to be denied the sweet ignorance or blind optimism of those people call "normal"?
The entire ordeal drains what little strength I have left. I don't even have enough energy to reach the bed; it feels like a superhuman task. I surrender to the cold, solid floor. Breathing feels heavier, especially knowing there is no path home.
Or so the light of the three moons in the sky tells me—shining through the open balcony doors.