i take a few steps back. is my heart beating? i don’t know. am i breathing? no idea. but the scent still fills my nostrils. how is that even possible?
i look under my bed again. the corpse is still there. its face is mine, its hands are my hands, its shirt—faded from years of wear, with a cigarette burn near the collar—is my shirt. it’s lying there, eyes wide open, motionless.
but i’m here. moving, thinking, afraid.
i step back a little more, scanning the walls as if searching for an escape route. but this is my room, just as it always has been. the desk, the chair, the pile of cigarette butts on the floor, the stacked empty boxes—everything is exactly as it should be. except… for one difference.
i’m here. but i’m also there.
i clear my throat, wondering if my voice will come out. “how… how is this possible?”
of course, no answer. who would speak? the dead one? or the living me?
then i notice something else. i lift my hands, staring at my fingers. they seem to shimmer. no, not exactly… they aren’t solid. they’re wavering slightly, like mist. like a glitch on a screen.
what does that mean?
i start thinking. something had felt off for a while. i hadn’t talked to anyone in days. no messages, no calls. or maybe there had been, but i hadn’t checked. i don’t have the courage to turn on my phone. what if there’s a message from days ago saying, “our condolences”?
i look at the corpse under my bed again. the eyes are still open, still staring at me. but something is different. or is it just in my head?
is it… smiling?
no. impossible. my corpse is under my bed. my own dead body. that alone is horrifying enough. but i’m here. moving. thinking. but… am i real?
i look at my hands again. this time, i see it clearly—they’re flickering. they won’t stay still. like a badly projected hologram behind a screen. panic rises as i open and close my palms, but nothing changes.
a sudden thought strikes me, and i rush toward the mirror in the corner of my room. the one i leaned against the wall months ago, now covered in dust. i step in front of it and…
there’s no one there.
no, no, that’s not right. that’s impossible.
i raise my hand, touching the mirror. where my face should be, there’s nothing. no reflection at all. but i’m here. i feel myself.
i turn back toward my bed, looking at the corpse once more. i’m still lying there. dead. cold. motionless. but maybe… maybe the real me is there.
maybe the thing that’s moving, thinking, panicking, staring into the mirror—isn’t me at all.
the realization drops into my stomach like a heavy stone. standing feels impossible. my knees give out, and i collapse to the floor. i clutch my head, but my hands… they don’t feel like my hands anymore. something is slipping.
a faint rustling sound.
i lift my gaze.
the corpse…
did it just move?
i lock my stare. the eyelids are still open, the face unchanged. but just a moment ago, it was entirely under the bed. now… now it seems slightly farther out.
i swallow. i try to breathe—but i can’t. do i even have lungs anymore?
then that thing—my dead body—moves a fraction of an inch. the corner of its lips curling, barely perceptible.
and i understand.
this isn’t a mistake. it’s not bad luck. i was supposed to leave. but i didn’t. and now… it’s waiting for me to take my place.
i look at the door.
something is wrong.
the entire apartment is empty. silent. but too silent. a silence without sound, as if even the air has stopped moving.
i try to take a deep breath—but i can’t. i never could.
the panic swells. i step back from the doorway. i need to go back to my room. yes, yes, i need to look under the bed again.
but when i turn around…
the room is gone.
no bed. no desk. no familiar mess, no dirty sheets, no cigarette butts. instead…
instead, there is only a pitch-black void.
i open my mouth, but no sound comes out. i take a step, but i don’t move.
and then, the voice comes.
at first, a whisper. distant, muffled, like a faint echo. then clearer. closer.
“how many times has it been?”
my tongue feels heavy. i can’t move. the voice—it’s mine. but also… not.
“how long do you think this one lasted?”
if i’m asking the question, who is answering?
and then, everything shatters.
it feels like my skin is peeling off. no, not peeling—I can’t feel it at all. because feeling doesn’t belong to me anymore. i try to see myself, but there’s no “seeing” anymore. no form, no body, no existence.
the whisper continues.
“you never existed.”
and suddenly, time rewinds.
out of the darkness, a pair of eyes open.
and i find myself under the bed, staring at my own corpse.
but this time, i’m the one beneath.
and the other me rises. stretches. sits on the edge of the bed. rubs its eyes.
that me is alive.
i, however, am still here, trapped in the old, rotting body.
i look up. the me above moves on, scrolling through social media, lighting a cigarette, going about their day.
and i wonder—
how many times has this happened before?
