I can feel it now, a tidal wave crashing through my chest. The weight of my own thoughts presses down on me, and I can't breathe. Every breath is a battle, like I'm inhaling the very air that suffocates me. My mind—it's a battlefield, a warzone with no soldiers, just explosions. I close my eyes, but the memories come flooding so in like an unstoppable river. Each one sharp, cutting deeper, until I can't tell where the pain ends and I begin.
It's too much. The thought echoes in my mind, but it doesn't feel like my own. It feels like something whispered into my soul, something that's not mine yet never leaves.
I look at my hands—shaking. I can feel the weight of them, of all the choices I've made, the ones I can't take back. The cuts on my skin feel like a reminder, like the world is telling me it won't stop until I give in. I want to scream, but it's like the air's been sucked out of the room. Why am I so weak?
The reflection in the mirror stares back at me—eyes empty, face hollow. It's not me. It can't be. The person in that glass is a stranger, a ghost trapped in a body that isn't his own. And yet, the eyes—those eyes—they're mine.
Suddenly, a noise. A sound that should be nothing, but it's everything. The pounding in my head intensifies with every knock. The door. It's all I can hear. I'm losing control.
Another knock, louder this time, like it's trying to shatter the very silence that clings to me. The urge to answer is overwhelming, but it's like I'm paralyzed, stuck in my own skin. My body is screaming at me to move, but I can't. I can't do this anymore. Just let it end.
The whispers are back. They've always been there, lurking beneath the surface, but today they're different. They're sharp, like glass cutting through my thoughts. You're nothing. You're worthless. You can't escape this. Not now. Not ever.
I turn toward the desk, the weight of the world pressing down on my chest. I reach for the blade, the one thing that's always been there, waiting. It promises relief, a fleeting moment of peace. But as my fingers curl around it, a flash of memory hits me.
Mom's voice.
"Be safe."
The blade trembles in my hand. I can't.
But I'm already drowning, the water closing in. I can feel my chest tightening, every breath shallow, each second heavier than the last. And the knocking—it never stops.
I drop the blade. My legs buckle, the room spinning as if the earth itself is trying to swallow me whole. My vision blurs. The walls close in.
My mind—my very essence—splits into fragments, like a mirror shattered on the floor, every shard a memory, a feeling, a scream I can't hear anymore.
Then everything goes black.