a room, pretty messed up room
The screen is dim, sickly gray light leaking through cracked blinds. The room is a
wreckage. Everything blurs at the edges, then snaps into cruel focus, then blurs
again.
Cold.
Cold.
Cold.
It crawls under the skin and stays there.
My breath comes out white even though I can't see it.
I'm sitting on the floor.
Or lying.
I don't know anymore.
The pillow is next to me.
Ripped open.
White stuffing bleeding out like guts.
The computer tower is on its side, cables tangled like veins.
Red power light blinking slow.
Slow.
Slow.
The punching bag sags from the ceiling, split, sand pouring in a thin, endless
stream.
The floor is invisible under papers.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Some torn, some crumpled, some just… stained.
Messy.
Super messy.
That's the only word left in my head.
Messy.
Messy.
Messy.
I'm still cold.
Why am I still cold?
The dream is stuck to me.
Red.
Red everywhere.
A smile with no face.
A knife going in.
Going in.
Going in.
I remember the dream.
I remember it too well.
But the rest…
The rest is slipping.
Who is "you"?
Who is "I"?
What is my name?
Say it.
Say it.
Nothing comes.
The harder I reach, the faster it runs.
My tongue touches the roof of my mouth like it's looking for a word that was
never there.
Wait.
One name.
No—two.
Aiko.
Aiko.
Aiko.
It tastes sweet and painful at the same time.
Kiyomi.
Kiyomi.
Kiyomi.
The sound makes something inside my ribs twist.
I love them.
I know I love them.
I feel it like a bruise that never heals.
But their faces…
When I try to see them, there is only static.
Only warmth where eyes should be.
Aiko.
Kiyomi.
Aiko.
Kiyomi.
Those two names are the only solid things left.
Everything else is fog.
Everything else is disappearing. Suddenly—Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
The sound punches through the room.
My heart stops.
Then starts again too fast.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Someone is at the door.
Someone is outside.
Who is knocking?
Who is knocking?
Who is knocking?
Is it him?
The man from the dream?
The one with the smile and the knife and the face I can't see?
Was that a dream?
Was that a dream?
Was that a dream?
My hands shake.
My teeth chatter from the cold that won't leave.
Where am I?
This room.
This messy, messy room.
Is this my room?
Is this even real?
The knocking again.
Slower this time.
Knock...
Knock...
Knock...Narration
I need something.
I need to protect myself.
My eyes scan the floor.
Papers shift under my knees.
There—half-buried under a torn sketchbook—
A knife.
Silver blade.
Black handle.
Exactly like the one in the dream.
Or maybe not.
Everything looks the same when terror is this loud.
I reach for it.
My fingers close around the handle.
Cold metal.
Real.
Heavy.
Too heavy.
It feels like it belongs there.
Like it's always belonged there.
I stand.
Slowly.
Slowly.
The floor creaks under bare feet.
Papers stick to my skin.
I walk toward the door.
One step.
Two.
Three.
The knife trembles in my grip.
Or maybe I'm the one trembling.
Slowly.
Slowly.
Slowly.
The door is right in front of me now.
Peeling paint.
Scratches.
Like claw marks.
My free hand touches the knob.
Ice cold.
I can hear breathing on the other side.
Or maybe that's my own.
Who is it?
Who is it?
Who is it?
Aiko?
Kiyomi?
Or him?
The man with no face.
The man who smiled while the red poured out.
I turn the knob.
Slowly.
Slowly.
Slowly.
The click is too loud.
The door opens.
Just a crack.
Just enough.
I open it up.