Something is wrong with the morning.

January 28th. I ran to the stop, but the bus was already gone. I saw the taillights fading into the fog, red and blurry like a smudge on a drawing. Now the street feels... thin. Behind me, I hear the flapping of wings. Coco is in a rush again, acting before he thinks, while Molly just drifts in her own twisted world.

They’re dead, I know that. I remember the funeral under the rosebush while I was away for my exams. But here they are—my only guides through the static. They say they want to help me find the truth, but I’m scared. Even lovebirds can lead you into the mouth of a nightmare by accident.

My ruler is too heavy for a piece of wood. It feels like it’s made of lead and old secrets. When the things in the fog come for me, I’ve learned that running only makes them faster. I have to hit back.

If I’m quick—if I strike while the sting of their touch is still fresh—my heart feels full again. It’s like stealing my life back before they can swallow it. Out here, Desperate Aggression is the only thing that keeps me from becoming dithered, too. I have to be fast. I have to be precise. I have to be violent.

Steam post image

I wish the shadows were empty. Instead, they’re full of everyone I’ve failed. In the distance, the one with the ticking heart counts the seconds I’ve wasted— tick, tock —watching me without eyes while the "other me" snaps at my heels. Above the rooftops, the tall lady scratches her nib against the sky until the clouds bleed red ink; she is waiting to "correct" my skin with a spear of lead. And the faceless ones... they just watch. They hide in the doorways with vibrating mouths, leaking hushed, porcelain laughter at my messy hair and my mistakes. They point. They whisper. They wait for me to trade the truth just to make the silence stop. But the more I heal, the more I dissolve into the red ink and the ticking.