My hands dig through my pockets like they're searching for a different timeline. one where I still understand what the hell is happening to me
My fingers brush something soft. crushed dump paper.
Cigarettes.
They feel wrong in my hand. Too fragile for the body I'm in now.
I pull one out anyway. Put it between my lips the way I always do. slow, lazy, trying to pretend my hands aren't shaking. My fingers feel too strong, too steady, like they're faking calm for me.
It takes forever to find the lighter. When I flick it, the flame jumps, then steadies, and for a second I just stare at it. The tiny hiss. The tiny warmth. Something normal.
When I inhale, the smoke burns so deep it's like it's cutting a path into my lungs.
And it's the first thing all night that actually feels real.
It burns. Hard. And I welcome it. It's proof I'm still breathing. Proof I still have lungs. Proof something human is still in me.
The smoke curls out of my jaw with a shaky exhale, slipping into the dim shadows of the garage like it's trying to escape before I do.
And then it hits me -
I can't fucking leave this here.
I can't leave... him.
It.
The empty, hollow skin swinging gently from the beam.
No one can see this.
No one can know.
Not Peter.
Not Mom.
Not the twins.
Not anyone.
My eyes move around the garage fast, too fast. There's a rhythm in my head that wasn't there before, something cold and precise guiding me. A hunter's rhythm. I don't like it.
In the corner under the shelves, I see the black trash bags. Yard waste bags. The big ones.
My brain doesn't even argue. It just says: yes. That. That's how you fix this.
I take another drag and hold the smoke in until my lungs shake.
Then I grab a bag.
The plastic crackles loud in the silence - too loud - and the noise sends a shiver down my spine.
I walk back to the empty shell.
And I touch it.
The cold hits me first. a dead cold, wet and rubbery in places, thin and papery in others. It folds under my hands like overcooked meat, like something that shouldn't exist. I feel the weight of it sag across my palms and I almost drop it.
My throat tightens.
My stomach flips.
I get this stupid, useless thought: that used to be my shoulder.
And I nearly vomit again.
But I force myself to move.
I force myself not to look at the face.
If I do, I'll break.
Completely.
I drag it down and drop it into the open trash bag. It folds into itself, collapsing like a dead animal. I tie the bag fast, or try to. My fingers slip. Sweat stings my eyes. My heart beats so violently it pushes against my ribs like it wants out.
I stand there for a long second, the bag at my feet, my cigarette burned down to the filter. Smoke curls around my face, slipping into my hair, clinging to my clothes. My shadow stretches across the floor, long and warped, crossing over the black stains still smeared on my hands.
I need to get this thing out.
Far.
Hidden.
Buried.
Somewhere forgotten.
Somewhere dead things stay dead.
I grab the bag. It's heavier than before but my body carries it like nothing. That scares me more than anything else tonight. I open the garage door and step outside.
The cold hits my face, but my skin doesn't care. It feels the air, registers it, but not like before, not with warmth or sting or comfort. Just pressure. Just weight.
I walk across the yard. Everything is too quiet. Too still.
The bag swings at my side, and every step I take feels like I'm dragging a ghost.
I head to the corner of the yard, the dead patch under the fence where nothing grows. The dirt is darker there. Colder. Like it's been waiting.
I stop.
Then a bark snaps through the air like a gunshot.
Max.
The neighbor's dog.
He lunges at the fence, teeth bared, growling deep in his chest. A low vibrating sound I've heard a thousand times. Except this time it's different. Violent. Ferocious.
I stand still.
And Max stares.
And I stare back.
His growl cracks.
His eyes widen.
His whole body pulls back like I hit him without moving.
And then he breaks.
He whimpers, actually whimpers.. and bolts into his doghouse so fast he nearly slips. I hear him scrambling inside, shivering, whining, hiding.
He's terrified.
Not of the bag.
Not of the noise.
Of me.
Something cold sinks into my ribs.
Something ancient.
An instinct I don't understand yet, but feel deep in my bones.
I kneel, pick up the old shovel, and start digging.
The dirt is heavy, clumps sticking to the blade. My muscles don't strain, they move smoothly, like the work is nothing. Like the body I'm in was built for this, for tearing into the earth, for lifting weight that would break me yesterday.
The hole grows.
Dark.
Deep.
Too deep.
I lower the bag in.
It hits the bottom with a dull, final thud, like the sound of a door locking behind me.
I bury it.
Layer by layer.
Shovel after shovel.
Until the earth levels out again, flat and smooth, like it wasn't disturbed at all.
I stand still. Lean on the shovel. Breath shaking.
I don't know if I buried a body or a life.
Maybe both.
The night presses against my shoulders as I walk back. The house looms quiet, warm light in the windows. Inside, everyone is asleep, unaware of the thing dragging dirt across the hallway floor, trying to pass for their son.
I slip inside, close the door soft, climb the stairs slow.
My room is dark.
The lamp clicks on when I turn the switch.
The light feels... different. Too sharp. Too yellow. Too loud.
I walk into the bathroom and shut the door.
The sound of the lock feels loud, too sharp in the quiet house. My hands are shaking, my skin feels wrong, and everything inside me is buzzing like a broken wire.
I don't look at the mirror yet. I can see enough of myself in the corners of my vision to know I'm not ready for the full picture.
The tiles are cold under my feet. Or at least I know they should be cold, but my body barely reacts. It's like my nerves are confused, like they're waiting for instructions.
I reach for the shower knob and turn it on.
Water blasts out fast, hitting the bottom of the tub with a heavy, steady sound. Steam rises almost immediately, filling the air. I feel the heat in the room before I feel it on my skin.
I pull off my hoodie.
Then the shirt.
The fabric sticks to me. Damp, dirty and it makes a soft peeling sound that makes my stomach twist.
I don't stop moving. I can't.
Jeans come off next. Socks. Everything hits the floor in a messy pile.
I step into the shower.
The water hits my chest first. It should burn, it's hot enough that steam fills the whole shower instantly. But all I feel is pressure. Weight.
No pain.
No heat.
Just... something.
I stand there, letting the water run down my face, my shoulders, my back. It slides off me too easily, like my skin doesn't grip anything anymore.
I turn the knob hotter.
Still nothing.
Just water.
Just movement.
Just sound.
I close my eyes and try to remember what heat used to feel like, the sting, the sudden "shit, that's hot" jump backwards. But nothing comes back. The memory feels far away, blurred.
So I twist the knob all the way to hot.
The highest it can go.
Steam floods the shower, thick and white. The water is basically boiling. It should hurt. It should force me out.
But my skin stays calm.
Quiet.
Wrong.
I try the opposite.
Turn it all the way to cold.
Ice water hits me in the chest so fast it knocks my breath out for a second, but not because of the cold, because of the force. My body doesn't shiver. No goosebumps. No shock.
Just the weight of water.
I put my hands on the wall and lean forward, head down, letting the stream hit the back of my neck. Water runs down my spine, dripping along my shoulder blades. My breath shakes without my permission.
That's when it hits me -
it's not that the shower is too hot or too cold.
It's that I'm not reacting.
Not the way a human should.
Not the way it used to.
I slide my hands over my chest, my arms, my stomach. Everything feels... stronger. Harder. Tighter under the skin. Like my body belongs to someone else.
I open my eyes.
The mirror outside the glass is fogged, but there's a dark shape staring back. Me, but not me. A blur. A shadow.
I step out of the stream slowly and shut the water off. The sudden silence punches my ears, too loud after the constant rush.
I grab a towel. My hands are still shaking. I dry my face first, then my arms, my chest. The towel feels rough, too rough , like my skin picks up every fiber.
I wipe a circle into the fogged-up mirror.
My reflection looks back.
And for a long second, I don't move.
My face is the same shape... but sharper. My skin looks pale, smooth, too smooth, like it was scrubbed clean from the inside out. My eyes look darker, like the color sank deeper.
I touch my cheek with my fingers.
The skin reacts instantly, like it's awake before I am.
I breathe out, slow and unsteady.
My mouth tastes like metal.
My chest feels tight.
I whisper to myself, barely hearing my own voice:
"What the fuck is wrong with me."