The more he stared at the face in the mirror, the more it felt like a mask he couldn't peel off. It wasn't him. It couldn't be him.
He yanked open the closet doors. His hands moved with a frantic energy, tearing through the clothes, flinging them onto the floor. His breathing was shallow, a sheen of sweat on his forehead and neck.
Finally, his fingers brushed against what he was looking for. He pulled out a black box. His legs stumbled back, knees hitting the edge of the bed as he flipped the latch.
Abyss Blue.
He stared at the injector. The liquid was a deep, suffocating blue, swirling with tiny silver particles that caught the dim light. He remembered why he'd bought it.
His hand gripped the injector. The glass case slipped from the bed, hitting the floor with a dull thud he barely registered. He watched the silver motes drift in the blue fluid for a heartbeat.
He jammed the needle into his arm and pressed the plunger all the way in.
The drug surged through his system like an icy shockwave, blasting from the injection site to the base of his skull in seconds. He slumped onto the bed, his muscles limp as the pressure in his head spiked.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then he looked down at his hands. They were shaking, the empty injector slipping from his fingers and clattering away. His vision blurred into a dark, heavy blue. The silver particles seemed to swell, filling his sight like a dust cloud as he felt himself falling.
Paul blinked.
He was standing in a bedroom. The air was stuffy, smelling of old wood and detergent. But the walls were the wrong color, and the window was misplaced.
This wasn't his room.
Paul gently brushed his hand across the sheet. It was cold. The bed was small, sized for a kid, not an adult. He stood slowly, his gaze drifting to the walls where cartoon posters were taped, their edges curling. In the corner sat a desk, and next to it, a small window stared out into an oppressive darkness.
This isn't my room.
Faint voices reached his ears, drifting from the hallway. His legs moved before he could think about who was talking. The floorboards creaked under his boots as he reached the kitchen.
"Paul, isn't it time you go to sleep?"
Paul stopped. His gaze found a woman near the sink. Then across the room sat a man. His eyes glued to file in his hands.
"Yes, mother." A weak voice replied.
"Tomorrow's Sunday. No school or anything."
"But Mom..." the kid whispered, glancing at the sink.
"It's alright."
Paul's gaze dropped at the kids.
"Mickey," the woman said softly. "Let him sleep."
"Just a few more minutes. We're doing something," Mickey replied, sitting across from the kid. "I'll wake him up."
"If you say so."
The kid focused on the three plastic cups lined up on the table. Mickey leaned forward, a faint, mischievous grin on his face.
"So, what do you say, brother? Ready for some magic?"
The kid nodded.
Mickey's hands were a blur as he shuffled the cups. The kid tracked every move, his eyes darting, following the one cup with the coin.
Mickey stopped, palms flat.
"Alright. Tell me which one."
The kid's hand darted for the center cup. He paused, looking up at Mickey.
"You sure?"
The kid wavered, his hand sliding to the left. He was sure it was the center one, but Mickey's stare made him doubt everything. He started biting his nails, a habit that made his fingers throb.
"That's a nasty habit, Paul."
The kid pulled his hands back quickly. He felt a weird chill beside him. He glanced over.
The man in the black hoodie was standing right there.
Paul looked down at the boy, then gave a single nod toward the center. The kid turned back, took a breath, and tipped the center cup.
The wood underneath was bare. No coin.
Mickey chuckled. "One more chance. Go on."
The kid went for the right cup. Empty.
"See?" Mickey nodded. "Interesting, huh?"
The kid scrambled for the last cup and flipped it. "Where?
Mickey leaned back on the sofa. "I wonder where it went. Maybe it vanished?"
"I saw it! It was supposed to be in the middle one."
"You saw it? But what you saw real though?"
"You're a liar," the kid pouted. "You hid it when I wasn't looking."
"I don't do cheap tricks." Mickey leaned in close, his face just inches from the kid's.
"Why don't you check your pocket?"
The kid eyed Mickey, then glanced up at the silent, hooded figure looming over them. He reached a little hand into his pajama pocket.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Paul went rigid. A sudden clarity hit him. The silence. The conversation. The date.
I have to stop this.
Paul lunged toward the foyer, his heavy boots silent on the floorboards.
"Don't open it!"
Samuel didn't even flinch. His father calmly set the file on the table and stood up. Paul threw himself in front of the man, arms outstretched.
"Don't open the door! They're going to kill you! They're going to kill everyone! Dad, look at me! Don't open it!"
Samuel passed right through him.
Paul felt a sickening chill as his father's silhouette drifted through his chest like smoke. There was no resistance. Samuel was already reaching for door.
Paul's face went white. If he didn't do something, the cycle would complete itself. The blood would hit the floor.
"I have to do something... something I have... I—"
His gaze shot up. The kid was still there, staring at him.
"Tell Dad to stop!" Paul shouted, stumbling back toward the boy.
The kid watched him with an empty, hollow expression. His eyes weren't the bright anymore, they were pits of pitch-black ink, reflecting nothing. Paul grabbed the boy by the shoulders, his fingers digging into the small, thin frame.
"Hey! Tell him to stop! Everyone is going to die! Dad, Mom... Mickey. Everyone!" He shook the kid with a violent, terrified strength. "You have to stop this!"
The kid just stared into Paul's horrified face. He didn't scream. He didn't cry. He didn't need to, because…
"It was already decided," the kid whispered.
Paul's face twisted in confusion. "What? What do you mean 'decided'?"
"Who's at the door, honey?"
His mother's voice called out from the kitchen. Paul's heart spiked. He was trembling so hard he could barely stand.
"You can stop this," Paul pleaded. "You just have to say it once... just one word... and nothing bad will happen. No one has to die."
The kid slowly reached up and pushed Paul's hands aside. He turned away.
"You heading to bed?" Mickey asked.
The kid didn't reply. He took a few steps toward the hallway and stopped beside a door. A small, hand-painted nameplate was hanging there: MICKEY.
Paul pressed his head tightly, his knees giving out as he dropped to the floor. "I can't let this happen. I can't let them kill... I have to stop this..."
Click.
Paul scrambled up, lungs burning. He ran toward the entryway.
Samuel opened the door. His eyes locked onto the two figures on the porch.
"What the—"
His eyes dropped, wide with a jolt of pure, agonizing shock. A blade was already buried deep in his stomach, the hilt jammed against his shirt. The door swung wide.
"Dad?" Mickey slowly stood up from the sofa.
George twisted the knife. A sickening crunch of steel grinding against bone. He yanked it back and plunged it in again.
Samuel gasped, his face turning deathly pale, but he didn't go down. He threw his weight against the doorframe, hands clawing at the door, trying to keep Aldo from crossing the threshold.
"Aisha! Get everyone inside! Call 911!" Samuel roared.
Paul stood inches from his father, screaming names that no one heard. He tried to grab George by the throat, to shove him off the porch, but his hands passed right through the killer like smoke. He was a war god reduced to a flickering ghost.
Aisha stumbled out of the kitchen, hands still wet from the dishes. "What happened? Sam..."
Aldo lunged. He drove his knife upward into Samuel's throat. A hot, arterial spray erupted, painting Paul's face in a horrifying red.
George shoved the dying man aside and stepped over Samuel's body, eyes locked on Aisha.
"Don't do it!"
Aisha turned to Mickey. "Take Paul and hide! Go! Now!"
She hadn't even taken two steps toward the hallway when George reached out. His hand closed around her hair, yanking her head back with a sickening snap.
"Brother, hide!" Mickey didn't run. He dove into the kitchen, his grabbed the first thing he could find. A heavy metal serving spoon.
"Mickey!" Aisha screamed, her knees hitting the floor as George held her pinned.
"I won't let you die." Mickey's eyes were bloodshot, his face twisted into a mask of raw fury. He approached the men with steady steps.
George looked at the boy, a low laughed escaped his mouth. To him, the twelve-year-old was just a pest, a fly to be swatted. He nodded to Aldo.
"Get him."
Aldo took a step forward. He was shaking, the knife in his hand trembling.
You can't win. Just run!
Aldo lunged, swinging the knife in a clumsy arc. Mickey side-stepped and shoved Aldo's shoulder, using the man's own momentum against him. Then swung the spoon with everything he had.
CRACK.
The metal connected with Aldo's calf. The man buckled, his knee slamming into the hardwood.
Mickey swung the spoon again, the metal bending into a warped shape as it smashed into the side of Aldo's head. Aldo's eyes glazed over, his vision blurring as he slumped to all fours.
Mickey raised the bent metal high.
"Don't you want to save your mother?"
Mickey froze. His eyes snapped to George, who had the knife pressed hard against Aisha's throat.
"You're gonna die here," Mickey whispered. "Both of you."