Chapter 1: Waking Up to Darkness
`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.
Chapter 2: The Knock
I'm frozen—trapped inside my mind, buried under layers of thoughts that echo louder than anything outside. The isolation has become a prison, but not the kind you can see. No, this one builds its walls inside your head. And now? I don't know what's real anymore. The silence in my room feels thick, like it has weight, pressing down on me with every breath I take.
Is this a ghost tormenting me? Or is it my own trauma, rising up to take form and haunt me from the inside out? Both feel equally suffocating—too real to ignore, too close to call.
I stare at the door again. There's a figure standing there. A woman. I can't make out her face—it's blurry, like she's part of a fading memory, distant and out of reach. But everything else... the hair, the height, the posture... it's all just like my mother.
Then something shifts.
That night. The car. The crash.
Why am I remembering this now?
The figure fades, disappearing into thin air, like smoke slipping through the cracks of my reality. But in its absence, a storm of memory takes over, dragging me back in time. The sensation hits me like a flood, the images, sounds, smells crashing into my mind with brutal force.
We were just driving. Casual. Calm. I remember the sun was setting—orange spilling across the road like spilled paint. The sky was bleeding color, the kind of beauty that makes you forget everything else. Then, out of nowhere, this red car pulls up beside us. Some lunatic behind the wheel, revving the engine like he was in a street race.
My mom looked at him, unimpressed. "Idiot," she whispered, shaking her head, her voice dripping with disdain. She didn't want trouble. She didn't take the bait.
But he did.
He dropped gears and floored it. I still hear the roar of that engine—the violent growl that sent shivers down my spine. Then, the sudden, sharp swerve. BAM.
Metal against metal. Glass exploding. Tires screeching. And then… silence.
The kind of silence that rings in your ears long after the chaos is over. The kind of silence that clings to you, suffocating, like a second skin.
My mom's last words still haunt me. "Be safe," she whispered, her voice cracked and soft, right before everything went black. I remember the warmth of her hand on mine, the soft hum of the engine as we drove, the steady rhythm of the world. Gone, in an instant.
The red car didn't make it either. I saw the driver's eyes—wild, desperate, like he knew what was coming but couldn't stop it. His face was twisted in fear, frozen in that moment of inevitability.
He died too.
I woke up alone in the wreckage. Screaming. Crying. Covered in blood that wasn't even mine. The air was thick with smoke, the sharp tang of metal and burning rubber choking me. My chest heaved, each breath jagged and painful, like the air itself was broken.
I come to, gasping for air as if I've been underwater for hours. The faint hum of the engine running in the distance mixes with the distant wail of sirens. But it's not real. It can't be. This isn't happening again.
I close my eyes, trying to steady myself. But then, I hear it again.
A knock. Soft. Delicate. Not the kind you get when someone's asking to come in. No, this one is... unsettling. It feels like it's coming from inside me, not my body. It feels like my mind is knocking on the door, demanding to be heard. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to feel it. I don't want to remember. But it's there, relentless, like the claws of the past sinking deeper into my skin, scraping against the tender places I try to hide.
I sit up, vision still blurry, my body shaking with tremors I can't control. The room's too quiet. Too still. But my heart? It's pounding in my ears, a frantic rhythm that doesn't match the stillness around me.
It wasn't just a crash. It wasn't just a moment of tragedy. It was my fault.
The guilt rises, crawling up my throat, choking me, clawing at my insides. It's too much. It's always too much. I think of my mom's last words—her soft plea that echoes in my head, a whisper lost in the wind. Be safe. What the hell was I supposed to do with that? She was already gone. It was too late.
And I... I didn't even save her.
Another knock—this one louder. Closer.
I stand, my legs heavy, like they've been weighed down with cement. Every movement feels like it takes twice the effort, like I'm walking through mud. But I move toward the door. Every step feels like I'm sinking deeper into the ground, deeper into a place I can't escape.
My fingers hover over the knob, trembling like a leaf in the wind. I hesitate. I don't know what's out there. Who's out there. My mind is already tearing itself apart. My memories flash back to the wreckage—the blood, the pain. The weight of what I didn't do.
Maybe it's a ghost. Maybe it's my mind breaking into pieces, trying to show me something I can't handle. But I have to open the door. I have no choice.
I twist the knob, my hand shaking as I push the door open, half-expecting to see… I don't even know what. The figure? A reflection of myself? The guilt?
But instead, I find only emptiness.
The hallway is silent. No one's there. Just shadows stretching across the walls, fingers reaching for me, beckoning me into their depths.
The knocking stops, leaving an eerie quiet behind.
I stand in the doorway, staring into the nothingness, trying to make sense of the silence. Was I wrong? Was this a figment of my mind? The isolation... the darkness... the memories? How much of this is real?
Then, it hits me.
It doesn't matter anymore.
None of it does. I can't undo what's already been done. The voices are in my head, the haunting figures, the memories—they'll always be there, circling, waiting to devour me.
But maybe… maybe that's okay.
Maybe I'm meant to face the ghosts of my past. The trauma. The guilt. Maybe I'm meant to live with it, not run from it. As much as I hate the thought, maybe my punishment is just to survive—to live in this fractured reality until the very end.
I shut the door with a soft click, leaning against it as my breathing steadies. The silence hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating, like the calm before the storm.
A silence.
Then, another knock.
But this time, I don't move.
This time, I'm not afraid.
Chapter 3: Shattered Reflections
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.
Chapter 4: Fading Into the Light
I wake to the sound of silence. The kind that feels too heavy to be real. The air is thick, like someone has taken all the oxygen from the room. My eyes flutter open, but the world still spins. The echoes of yesterday—the crash, the knock, the fear—pulse through my mind like a bad song that refuses to end.
I try to push myself up, but the weight of everything crashes into me again. My body feels like it's been run over. Every inch aches. It's like my own skin is a foreign thing. I'm fighting to breathe, but each inhale feels like I'm swallowing shards of glass. The tightness in my chest doesn't let up. It never does.
I look around, trying to get my bearings. The room is the same, but everything feels different. Distorted. Like it's being viewed through the fog of a dream. The walls seem to close in, and the window, where light used to pour in, is now obscured by something darker.
"Get up," I mutter to myself, voice hoarse, like I've been screaming for days. "Get up."
But the words feel hollow, like a whisper trying to fill a canyon. My legs refuse to cooperate. They shake beneath me, unstable. I don't know how much longer I can do this. Can I even do this anymore?
I sit there, frozen in time, as the minutes slip by. I think of the ghosts again. My dad's rage, my mother's death, the crash, the endless loop of my own mind. Each memory feels like a crack in the mirror of my soul, pulling apart the person I thought I was. But I can't escape. I know that. The only choice is to face it head-on. To stare into the darkness and hope something—anything—will stare back and tell me it's not the end.
A knock.
This time, it's different. Not the knocking that's always been there, the one that haunts the edges of my mind. This knock feels… real. It's clear, sharp, and it rattles the door, demanding attention.
I stand slowly, my body resisting, but I'm driven by something deeper this time. I can't explain it, but the force of it moves me. The door. I reach for the handle, heart hammering in my chest. The knocking grows louder, faster. A rhythmic pulse that seems to come from my very soul.
I hesitate. What if it's not just a knock? What if it's something more? What if I open that door and there's nothing on the other side? Or worse, what if the worst part of me is waiting there?
A deep breath.
I push the door open.
The light that floods in blinds me, almost burning my eyes. The hallway stretches in front of me, empty. No one is there. But something is different now. The shadows, the memories, the guilt—they don't feel as suffocating. It's still dark, but I can see a little more clearly. The edges aren't as sharp. The weight on my chest isn't as crushing.
Maybe it's just the light playing tricks on me. Maybe it's the exhaustion. But for the first time in a long time, I don't feel entirely alone.
I step forward, each movement heavy with the uncertainty of what's ahead. But there's something else—hope. It feels fragile, but it's there.
The further I walk, the more I realize I'm not just walking through the hallway. I'm walking through myself. Every step is a piece of a journey I've avoided for so long. Every footstep echoes, not in the room, but in my heart.
It's a beginning.
And for once, it doesn't feel like the end.
Chapter 5: The Last Echo
The room was quiet, a soft hum of the city seeping through the walls, a sound I could never quite escape. It's strange, how silence and noise can become one and the same. My eyes are wide open, but it feels like I'm seeing through them for the first time. I lay there, still as a forgotten memory, yet the world outside continues, indifferent to the wreckage within me.
The past few days, or maybe it's been weeks—time doesn't have much meaning anymore—have been a blur. Like walking through a fog that refuses to lift, every step I take seems to lead me deeper into a maze of my own making. I remember the crash, the echo of my mother's voice before the world shattered, but I also remember the knock at the door, and the moment I chose to stop running.
Today is different. Today, something has changed, but I'm not sure what.
I sit up slowly, my limbs heavy like they belong to someone else, but this time, there's a subtle sense of purpose, as though my body is learning the rhythm of life again, piece by piece. The floor beneath me feels cold, sharp against my skin, a reminder that I'm alive, even when everything else has faded into shadow.
The whispers start again. They're never quiet, always buzzing like flies around a wound, but today, I can hear them for what they are—nothing but echoes of fear, of guilt, of the past. And for the first time in years, I understand something that I've been too scared to face: they don't define me. They never did.
I stand, a slow, deliberate motion. The world outside my window feels unreal, like a movie I'm watching through a glass screen. People go about their lives, unaware of the storm brewing inside me. For them, it's just another ordinary day. For me, it's a war that's been raging for longer than I care to remember.
But now, I know. I know that it's okay to stand still. It's okay to feel broken. And it's okay to pick up the pieces, one at a time, even if I don't know where all of them are.
The mirror is on the wall in front of me, and for the first time in ages, I let my gaze linger there. I look at the face that's mine, but not mine. There's a strange recognition, as if I'm meeting myself for the first time, an old acquaintance whose name I've forgotten. My reflection is scarred, weary, eyes too tired to hold the weight of the world, but there's something else there too—something fierce, something unyielding.
I'm still here.
The realization settles into my bones like warmth after a long winter. The trauma that once seemed like an insurmountable mountain—one that I would never be able to climb—isn't a part of me. It's just something that happened. Something that hurt, something that scarred me, but not something that can define my future. I didn't ask for any of this. No one does. But I've got a choice now. I always did.
I take a deep breath. It's shaky, but it's real. The air in my lungs is alive, each inhale a reminder that I'm still breathing, still fighting.
And then the knock comes again.
But this time, I'm not afraid. I know who it is.
I turn toward the door, the weight of the past and present shifting as I move toward it. Each step feels lighter now, like the chains that held me down are finally falling away, piece by piece. The door stands in front of me, a simple barrier between what was and what could be. My hand hovers over the knob, but I don't hesitate this time. I twist it and open the door.
The hallway is empty, but the air feels different, as if it's waiting for something, waiting for me. The emptiness isn't unsettling anymore; it's a space that I can fill. With the next step, I move into the unknown, into a future that doesn't have to be shaped by fear or guilt.
I walk outside, and the sun hits me like a wave, warm and unfamiliar after so long in the dark. The city is alive—people laughing, talking, the sound of distant traffic—but none of it feels overwhelming. I don't have to hide anymore.
The voices in my head are quieter now. They still exist, but they're not in charge. They're just thoughts—fragments of a past that no longer holds any power over me.
I stop on the street corner, looking around as the world continues to move, like a river flowing past. I see people rushing by, their lives just as tangled and complicated as mine, but I don't feel disconnected from them anymore. They don't have to understand what I've been through, and I don't need them to. But for the first time, I feel a part of something bigger—something shared, something human.
A gentle breeze picks up, rustling the leaves in the trees, and I close my eyes, letting it wash over me. The weight of everything that happened, everything I couldn't control, seems to drift away with the wind. I can't change the past, and maybe I don't need to. Maybe I just need to let it be what it was.
A distant memory flashes in my mind—my mother's face, soft with love, whispering "Be safe." Her voice is gone, but it doesn't feel like a loss anymore. It's a quiet echo, a reminder that she wanted me to live. To be safe. To be okay.
Maybe it's time to stop fighting the past, to stop running from it. Maybe it's time to carry it with me, like a scar I don't need to hide. The pain doesn't define me, but it shaped me. It made me who I am today, and today, I'm choosing to move forward.
I open my eyes, and I see the world again. Not as something to fear, but as something to embrace. The city hums around me, but it's not a buzz of chaos. It's the sound of life—fragile, beautiful, and fleeting. But it's mine.
I take a step forward.
Then another.
And another.
The world stretches out before me, infinite in its possibilities. For the first time, I'm no longer trying to outrun my demons. I'm walking beside them, and in doing so, I'm finally free.