Breathless

Six Months Earlier…

My eyes open.
Wet at the edges. Not sadness. Something else.

Still a dream.
But not one I could shake.

The figure leaned in, knees pressed to the ground. Fingers dug into my sides. Tickling. Hard. It bent me into laughter I didn’t want. The kind that breaks down into choking. Breath gone. Vision closing. My chest pulling tight.

The old fear—the lurking shape, the waiting dark—gone.
In its place, only the fear of air that would not come.
No longer afraid of it. Afraid of not breathing.

Then nothing.

But I stayed.
Same place. Same figure.

Only—me different. Older.

A tripod stood next to me. Bare. No camera.

I swung. Hard.
Metal against hollow. The sound split the air. The head cracked down the middle. A pumpkin splitting open. The body fell and stilled.

Silence.

I froze.

Not victory. Not loss. Just confusion.
Like I’d stepped into something I shouldn’t have.

The ache spread. Everywhere. Most of all in my chest. Not stroke. Not heart attack. Deeper. Like something hidden had clawed its way out.

I looked down.
A chocolate bar. Unwrapped. Melting against my hand.

I turned back.
The split head was gone.

In its place—plastic. A cheap mask. October junk.

My hand now empty. The bar gone.

I limped forward, bent over, clutching at my chest. Each step uneven.

At the corner I stopped.

A sign.
Reflection Loop.