I wake up on the floor.
Not wake up like from sleep.. wake up like surfacing from something thick and black and endless. My eyes open, but my mind lags behind, like it doesn't want to be here yet.
The floor should be cold.
But it isn't.
All I feel is the weight of it pressing into me. Every grain of concrete, every tiny shard of dust imprinting into my skin like someone's carving a map onto me. My back sticks to the surface, and I'm naked, but the air has no temperature. It's just... there. Thick. Heavy.
My fingers twitch on the ground.
And suddenly I feel everything.
The dust.
The microscopic grit.
Even the dryness of the air sliding across my knuckles.
My body shouldn't be able to feel like this.
Electricity surges from the inside out, lighting up every nerve, like my body forgot how air works and is relearning it in the most violent way possible.
My heart isn't beating right.
It's slow.
Heavy.
Too steady, like something mechanical has crawled between my ribs and started doing the job for me.
A ringing fills my ears - then sharpens.
And suddenly I hear everything.
God, I can hear everything.
The house above me groaning. Wind scraping the outside wall.
A clock ticking three rooms away.
The pulse in my own neck, echoing like a drum.
Even the blood inside me, rushing like a distant river.
It's all crystal clear, painfully clear.
It's too much.
It's like the world suddenly turned itself up to max volume.
My fingers twitch against the ground, and the detail is overwhelming. Every grain of dust, every tiny fragment of grit, every microscopic scratch on the concrete. I can feel them all like they're etched into my bones.
I move my hand to my neck, expecting rope burns, pain, torn flesh.
Nothing.
Smooth skin.
Untouched.
A cold pulse of dread slides through me, even though my body doesn't feel cold at all.
My memories flicker, enough to know something terrible happened, but not enough to form a full thought. Just flashes. Pressure. Darkness. Silence.
I try to push myself up, but my legs respond like they belong to someone else. My knees buckle. My hands scrape on the floor as I fall forward again. The world spins once, violently, like someone grabbed the edges of reality and shook it.
My stomach drops so sharply it feels like the floor tilts under me. Something is wrong. Something is wrong.
And then I look up.
And I freeze.
It's me.
Or... what used to be me.
It's me, a hollow version of me - slumped forward, empty, like it was peeled off and hung up to dry. My hoodie still clings to the shoulders. My jeans hang from the waist. Even the socks, those stupid red ones my mom gave me years ago, are still on the limp, sagging feet.
My breath shatters into a dozen thin pieces.
I don't want to go closer.
But something pulls me.. curiosity or dread or instinct, something bigger than fear.
Feet trembling, I take a step.
Then another.
I end up directly beneath it, my head tilted back, my mouth slightly open because I can't convince my jaw to close.
My hand rises before I fully register the impulse.
My fingers reach for the empty shell.
The moment I touch it, the moment my fingers press into the slack, rubbery flesh..something inside me screams.
Not out loud.
Inside.
Like bones grinding.
Like nerves tearing.
Like something ancient and animal clawing its way up my spine.
The skin is wrong.
Wet.
Cold.
Soft in a collapsing way, like it's deflating against my touch.
I jerk backward so hard my shoulders slam the floor. Pain shoots through me, but even that feels... strange. Like my body processes pain as information now, not sensation.
My stomach flips, rolls, twists..
And then I'm choking.
My whole torso convulses violently.
My throat clenches, dragging something up from a place deeper than my stomach.
And then I vomit.
But it's not vomit.
Something thick and black spills out of me like oil being forced through a crack. It splatters across the concrete, steaming faintly, its stench so sharp and metallic it burns my nose. The sound it makes..wet and heavy. It echoes around the garage like it doesn't belong in this world.
More drags itself out.
A second wave.
A third.
My muscles tremble uncontrollably. My ribs feel like they're being pried open with cold fingers.
Tears sting my eyes. Not from emotion, not from fear, but from the sheer violence ripping through me.
My vision blurs.
Sharpens.
Blurs again.
I cough so hard I swear I taste blood, but when I wipe my mouth, my fingers come away coated in the same black sludge.
The garage swims around me.
The walls feel too close.
The shadows are breathing.
When the convulsions finally stop, I collapse sideways, cheek hitting cold concrete. My whole body trembles in little aftershocks, like I'm still being electrocuted.
My hands are shaking, stained pitch-black, dig into the floor, trying to anchor me. The black stuff sticks to my skin, refusing to wipe off, sinking deeper into the lines of my palms.
"This... isn't real..." I whisper, my voice raw and cracked.
Silence answers me. A heavy, thick silence that isn't comforting. It presses against my spine, intentional, almost curious.
The garage is silent but not peaceful silent.
Predator silent.
Like the shadows are leaning closer, listening.
I look at my hands, at the black smears sinking deeper into my skin no matter how hard I rub. Panic rises so fast it feels chemical, like it's burning holes in my ribs.
What if I didn't wake up?
What if I'm still hanging there?
What if this is the after?
The thoughts hit me one after another.
I lie there for a moment, shaking, holding onto the floor like it's the only thing keeping me from falling off the planet.
Eventually I force myself up.
And I look again at the thing hanging from the beam.
My old body.
Deflated.
Dead.
Empty.
And the clothes I wore yesterday, still on it.
It hits me harder than anything..Like grief mixed with horror mixed with something that feels almost like shame. I don't want to touch it. I don't want to go near it. But I can't stay naked, shaking, covered in whatever the hell came out of me.
So I move.
Hands trembling so badly I can barely use them. My stomach lurches again as I touch the hoodie, peeling it off the dead shape. The skin pulls with it. Makes a wet, awful sound. Something dark smears across my wrist. I swallow a gag.
I don't look at the face. I can't.
I strip the jeans, the socks.
Dress myself with shaking hands.
The clothes cling to me, damp and cold.
Too tight in places where my body isn't the same shape anymore.
But they're mine. Or they were.
And that's enough.
When I'm finally dressed, I step back, breathing hard, my hands still shaking. The empty skin hangs behind me like a discarded version of myself. a warning, a threat, a reminder.
A line of cold recognition runs through me:
I didn't survive.
I changed.
And whatever I am now , it's not human.
The worst part?
A tiny, quiet part of me likes how it feels.
But familiar.