| I've | |||||||||
| Been | |||||||||
| having | |||||||||
| these | |||||||||
| weird thoughts |
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| lately. | |||||||||
| real? | |||||||||
| even | |||||||||
| this | |||||||||
| of | |||||||||
| any | |||||||||
| is | |||||||||
| Like, | |||||||||
In a world with no stars and no sound, a man kneels, vines snaking over his limbs as he's forced to watch a ragged reflection of himself grapple with fear and doubt. Bound in a silent meadow that feels half-remembered and wholly inescapable, the man's every attempt to speak or move is choked by the creeping tendrils around him. His only company is an 'Other'-both familiar and alien-who stands at the brink of leaving forever. As each agonizing moment unfolds, the man realizes this is not just a battle against suffocating vines, but against the unbearable isolation of losing a piece of himself.
short story, horror, surreal