Chapter Text
I woke up choking.
Not on air, but on nothingness—the kind of suffocating absence that clings to your skin like damp fabric. My lungs heaved as if dragging me back from the brink, though I could have sworn I wasn’t breathing only moments ago. My eyes flew open to darkness so complete it felt thick, and for a heartbeat, I wondered if this was hell. Then my forehead smacked against something hard and wooden.
“Shit—” The word came out as a hoarse, cracking whisper. My voice sounded wrong. Too high. Too young.
I sat up—or tried to. My head hit the low ceiling again, this time sending a dull throb through my skull. Panic surged up my throat, cold and sharp. I scrambled on my knees, my hands brushing against rough wood on all sides. A box? No. Too cramped. Too small. My fingers traced metal—hinges. A door. My pulse pounded in my ears.
Where am I?
I shoved at the door, expecting resistance, but it swung open easily. A pale strip of moonlight spilled into the tiny space, revealing... shelves. A vacuum cleaner. Cleaning supplies. A cupboard. I crawled out onto a threadbare carpet, heart hammering. My bare feet sank into its worn fibers as I stood unsteadily, legs trembling.
This isn’t my room.
No. No, my room had been small, yes, but not this small, not this filthy, not... like this. And there had been a window. And posters. And—
—and blood. A razor. My bathtub. I remembered.
I staggered backward, my heel catching on the edge of the cupboard door, and I went down hard on my tailbone. Pain shot up my spine, but it was distant, muted by the roar of realization clawing at my skull.
I died. I died. I slit my wrists. I watched the water turn red. I remember the stillness after, the relief—
So why am I here?
My breathing turned frantic, shallow. I pressed my palms to my face, but even that felt wrong. My fingers were too small, too narrow, my skin too smooth. I stumbled to my feet again, driven by pure terror, and scanned the dark hallway. There—a faint rectangle of silver light. A door, ajar. Beyond it, a bathroom.
I darted inside, flipped the switch, and froze.
The boy in the mirror stared back at me with wide, green eyes.
Messy black hair stuck up in every direction. A thin, pale face with sharp angles. Small shoulders drowning in an oversized shirt. My breath caught as I raised a hand to my cheek; the boy did the same. The glass didn’t lie.
This wasn’t me. This wasn’t my face.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “No, no, no—”
The sound of my own voice—his voice—broke something loose in me. I gripped the sink, knuckles whitening, and stared until my eyes burned. A boy. Alive. How?
The world tilted, and I bent over the sink, gagging, but nothing came up. I couldn’t stop shaking. I pinched my arm hard enough to leave marks. It hurt. This wasn’t a dream. It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be.
“I’m dead,” I muttered to the mirror, to the empty bathroom, to no one. “I’m supposed to be dead.”
And then, faintly, I heard it—a clock striking midnight somewhere in the house. The chime was deep, deliberate. Twelve times. When it stopped, silence settled over the place like dust.
I sank to the floor, back against the door, drawing my knees to my chest. I didn’t know whose body I was in or why. I didn’t know where this house was or why every creak of it made my skin crawl. All I knew was that I wasn’t me anymore—and whatever second chance I’d been given, I hadn’t asked for it.
Somewhere in the quiet, I thought I heard footsteps upstairs.
And for the first time since waking up, I wondered if I should have stayed dead.