The Weight of Shadows

Trigger Warning:

This story contains themes of violence, mental health struggles, and animal harm, which may be distressing to some readers. Discretion is advised. 

With every passing second, life leaves behind a shadow of someone I despise. Yet I know—I do not hate myself. I cannot hate the self that exists now, for we are bound by the same loathing for who I once was. Is this the way of existence? For the present to scorn the past, while treading warily into the uncertain future? Yet here I am, curled beneath the bed, hiding from my monsters in the same place where others stash theirs. I have lost count of the nights sleep has evaded me. I feel as if I am in a haze, dreadfully tired, yet unable to close my eyes; when I do, the weight of my thoughts begins to crush me. The carpet smells freshly shampooed—a welcome reprieve from the stench of decay that clings to everything around me. 

Something stirs above me. 

I flatten myself to the ground, trying to avoid being crushed by the springs as she wakes above. Like a goddess descending from the sky, she cares nothing for what lies beneath her. We are bad for each other—she brings out the worst in me, and if she ever met that man, we would both be worse off for it. Her routine unfolds exactly as I’ve come to expect over the past several weeks. It must be eight in the morning—she steps toward the shower, unaware of my eyes on her. I drink in the sight of her backside, and something primal awakens inside me. I feast on her beauty while she remains oblivious. How perversely satisfying. My mind slips, pulled into the shadows, my consciousness clawing at the ground as it's dragged deeper into the dark. I swear I can feel her warmth from here, her blood simmering beneath me, tantalizingly close. 

SLAM

The bathroom door slams, and with it, I feel her rip away the feral layer I wear like a second skin. It peels off with the force of her, leaving me bare and shivering in the dark beneath the bed. My thoughts, once consumed by her, break free, but the coldness rushes in to replace them. That’s what she does. She digs her claws into the wildest, darkest parts of me and pulls until all that remains is the vulnerable man underneath. I’m terrified to pull away—not because of what I’ll lose, but because when I do, what if there’s nothing left but this hollow, trembling form? 

The water starts, and then her singing fills the room.

Minutes pass as I listen to her sing in the shower. Her voice serenades the space, and I bathe in the warmth of her melody. What a blessing it is to be so close, to hear her without the muffling of outside walls. I think she knows what she’s doing to me. She plays in the dark corners of my mind, prodding at the creature that waits within. Does she do this to make me fight for her by resisting, only to reward me afterward? With each passing day, he grows stronger, annexing more of my mind for his own. I can't keep this up forever. 

The water stops.

There’s a knife in my hand. A knife... How long has it been there? Had I known all along? My heart races, pounding against my ribs, and I don’t want to do this. Tears fall, warm and unstoppable, down my cheeks. I hate this feeling—it’s too familiar. Grief pierces through me like a sharpened arrow. My poor mother... she didn’t deserve a devil for a son. She died with love in her heart for me. I wish I didn’t have to tear it open to see it. Slowly, I curl back into myself, clutching the knife as though it could offer comfort. I wish she were here. I wish anyone were. 

The singing fades, replaced by the dull roar of the hairdryer. 

She beat the devil into me. She shaped the mind of her only son to be the perfect vessel for him. I should have slit her throat the moment I left her cursed womb. I could’ve saved the world a lot of suffering. But it’s not about me anymore. It never was. It’s always been about making the best of what I have—what she made of me. I stretch out, flexing muscles that ache from too many years of tension. I grab a fur pillow and rest my head, stifling the giggle that threatens to escape as the absurdity of it all sinks in. Another life, entirely in my hands—for me to guide, or to crush 

The hairdryer stops. Moments later, the door opens. 

Hot steam pours from the bathroom, refreshing the stale, decrepit air like a crisp breeze. Her skin glistens from the shower and a meticulous skincare routine. In this moment, I can capture her beauty in its purest form. Beauty, when unobserved, is like a ripe strawberry left uneaten—its essence wasted. Its true power lies in how it stirs the hearts of those who witness it. And, like the fruit, if left untouched, it will wither and return to the earth. Oh, how I wish my knife could taste it. To peel back her flesh facade and know her crimson truth. 

"Here, kitty kitty. Wombat! Here, kitty kitty."

She approaches the bed, wrapped in that white cotton towel, her legs smooth and shimmering from the shower. I hear the soft whisper of the towel as it brushes against her skin, the sound almost deafening in the silence of the room. My breath stills as she moves closer, and all I can see are her ankles, pale and glistening, her feet delicate as they step across the carpet, unaware of the darkness lurking just beneath. My pulse quickens, hammering in my ears, yet the rest of me feels eerily still—caught between wanting to reach out and pull away.

She pauses at the edge of the bed, oblivious to the horrors hidden below. For a moment, I think she might walk away. My fingers tighten around the knife, but some part of me hesitates, holding onto the last thread of restraint. Don’t kneel, I plead silently. Don’t look. But then, like the angel she is, she bends down, unaware that she is sealing her own fate. Her soft, freshly washed hair spills over her shoulders as she kneels, and I can smell the faint scent of her shampoo, fresh and clean—a cruel contrast to the rot beneath.

I watch, frozen in that small space under the bed, as her face lowers, her expression calm, unsuspecting. Time slows. Her eyes, curious and innocent, draw closer to the floor, inch by inch. I feel the air grow heavier as the moment stretches, as if the room itself is holding its breath along with me. This is it. My heart pounds against my ribs, urging me forward. Yet for a moment, I remain still, gripped by the last fleeting hope that I might stop myself. 

But then, she sees me.

It isn’t the first time she’s seen me. We’ve exchanged pleasantries—smiles across the driveway, a nod in passing. To her, I was nothing more than the quiet neighbor. Invisible, harmless. I was the man she saw pulling weeds in my yard, the one she passed without a second thought. But now, as her eyes lock onto mine, the reality changes. In this moment, we truly meet for the first time. Now she sees me.

And I wonder, does she recognize the darkness in me? Can she feel it, the shift in the air, the gravity of what is about to happen? Her breath catches, her expression faltering as the familiarity drains from her eyes, replaced by something else—something primal. It’s like the mask of normalcy has fallen, and she finally sees what lies beneath.

Then her gaze shifts.

It lands on Wombat. The bloodied, lifeless body of her beloved pet—now my pillow—stares back at her. Her eyes widen in a flash of horror. The sound that follows is not immediate—it takes a beat, as though her mind struggles to process the scene. Then, the scream comes. It rips through the room, pure and divine, like the sound of a soul breaking in two. Her wail reverberates through me, I feel my fingers tremble around the knife. For a fleeting second, I think about letting go. I could crawl back into the shadows and disappear. But it’s too late. 

I move before I even realize it. The knife is already in my hand, already plunging forward, silencing her scream in an instant. Her body jerks, and then she collapses, her weight falling against the blade, choking on her final breaths. Blood pours from her mouth, but I am calm now, the tension finally released.

I lean down, press a soft kiss to her cooling cheek. A final thank you—for letting me bear witness to the end of her beauty.