I don’t know how I ended up in this situation, nor do I know who was after me. The only thing that I can recall is the sound of my own footsteps. But there was also something peculiar that I’ve picked up on: the sound of my own voice. Saying things such as ‘you’re so useless,’ or ‘why can’t you move forward from your own life?’
Real inspirational stuff.
My lungs were clawing for air, burning with every breath. Everything was dark, and the voice was echoing behind me. Or was it in my head?
Then the memories started to project throughout the dark, all in 16mm film. They flickered onto the walls — the footage was grainy; it was almost as if it were a private showing for a New Wave reel that I never agreed to star in. My feet slowed before I could stop myself.
A flash of my college graduation—where I reached for my degree after having my name mispronounced by the chancellor. The applause was distant.
Then the women who weren’t a part of my life anymore showed up in the footage: My redacted exes. Their faces were blurred, and their names were scratched clean from the frame.
“I’ll be busy all summer. Go to that concert with somebody else.”
That one text drained the color out of me. My first love.
“Who were you with last night?”
That voice, all accusatory bark, reminded me of why I left that particular person. My stomach dropped as the echo behind me kept up with my breathing.
“Please keep fighting. I promise it's worth it.”
That one hurt differently. A press release with a hidden blade.
Their voices were distorted and spliced as the scenes continued playing.
I begged the director, if there even was one, to stop. Nothing stopped. By that point, I was on my knees as I watched my heart being mangled and broken by these syndicated reruns.
And then the coup de grâce: my breakdown. The moment I snapped. The version of myself that I didn’t even recognize.
I saw myself — hunched over, swaying, and folding in half like a bad puppet. Drunk. It was a weekly routine every Friday and Saturday. The projection then cut to a montage of various nightclubs, where I was dancing with many women. I can barely remember their names and faces. It was my second home.
Cut. I was now in a bathroom stall. My hands braced against the porcelain toilet as I threw up hard liquor that I drank copious amounts of.
Then another. A hospital and its harsh overhead lights. I was given a mirror by the nurse. There were quite a few scrapes and a huge bruise around my left eye.
“Look at you,” the voice echoed.
Then another. Outside of my apartment. I was drunkenly freaking out about where my keys were. I then had the bright idea to open up my phone, getting notified by the rideshare app. I checked my profile as I saw my rating plummet by a point.
Finally, the last cut. I was in the backseat of someone’s car. Belligerent, slurring nonsense, and insisting that I was fine when I wasn’t. Underneath it all, I drowned in self-pity and thoughts that I didn’t wanna name, hiding behind my guarded walls. I thought I was safe, but I was wrong.
Suddenly, the film stopped. I looked around in bewilderment, wondering what happened. I heard the voice again.
“Did you enjoy the film?”
I continued to scan my dark surroundings until I saw a bright dot from the corner of my eye. Getting up from my knees, I ran toward it. This could be my escape. The dot grew bigger and bigger as its light completely enveloped me. I could hear white noise. Everything felt overexposed as the edges of the dark burned away like film, too close to the bulb.
And then I was standing in front of it.
My bathroom mirror.
I stared at myself, trapped behind the glass: worn, haggard, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. For a moment, I waited for my hunter to appear over my shoulder. Someone. Anyone.
But there was nothing. The echo wasn’t behind me anymore.
I leaned closer until my forehead touched the cold surface of the glass. My reflection did too.
I gave myself a wry smile.
“Found you.”
“Now, don’t run.”
“Again.”
Real inspirational stuff.
My lungs were clawing for air, burning with every breath. Everything was dark, and the voice was echoing behind me. Or was it in my head?
Then the memories started to project throughout the dark, all in 16mm film. They flickered onto the walls — the footage was grainy; it was almost as if it were a private showing for a New Wave reel that I never agreed to star in. My feet slowed before I could stop myself.
A flash of my college graduation—where I reached for my degree after having my name mispronounced by the chancellor. The applause was distant.
Then the women who weren’t a part of my life anymore showed up in the footage: My redacted exes. Their faces were blurred, and their names were scratched clean from the frame.
“I’ll be busy all summer. Go to that concert with somebody else.”
That one text drained the color out of me. My first love.
“Who were you with last night?”
That voice, all accusatory bark, reminded me of why I left that particular person. My stomach dropped as the echo behind me kept up with my breathing.
“Please keep fighting. I promise it's worth it.”
That one hurt differently. A press release with a hidden blade.
Their voices were distorted and spliced as the scenes continued playing.
I begged the director, if there even was one, to stop. Nothing stopped. By that point, I was on my knees as I watched my heart being mangled and broken by these syndicated reruns.
And then the coup de grâce: my breakdown. The moment I snapped. The version of myself that I didn’t even recognize.
I saw myself — hunched over, swaying, and folding in half like a bad puppet. Drunk. It was a weekly routine every Friday and Saturday. The projection then cut to a montage of various nightclubs, where I was dancing with many women. I can barely remember their names and faces. It was my second home.
Cut. I was now in a bathroom stall. My hands braced against the porcelain toilet as I threw up hard liquor that I drank copious amounts of.
Then another. A hospital and its harsh overhead lights. I was given a mirror by the nurse. There were quite a few scrapes and a huge bruise around my left eye.
“Look at you,” the voice echoed.
Then another. Outside of my apartment. I was drunkenly freaking out about where my keys were. I then had the bright idea to open up my phone, getting notified by the rideshare app. I checked my profile as I saw my rating plummet by a point.
Finally, the last cut. I was in the backseat of someone’s car. Belligerent, slurring nonsense, and insisting that I was fine when I wasn’t. Underneath it all, I drowned in self-pity and thoughts that I didn’t wanna name, hiding behind my guarded walls. I thought I was safe, but I was wrong.
Suddenly, the film stopped. I looked around in bewilderment, wondering what happened. I heard the voice again.
“Did you enjoy the film?”
I continued to scan my dark surroundings until I saw a bright dot from the corner of my eye. Getting up from my knees, I ran toward it. This could be my escape. The dot grew bigger and bigger as its light completely enveloped me. I could hear white noise. Everything felt overexposed as the edges of the dark burned away like film, too close to the bulb.
And then I was standing in front of it.
My bathroom mirror.
I stared at myself, trapped behind the glass: worn, haggard, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. For a moment, I waited for my hunter to appear over my shoulder. Someone. Anyone.
But there was nothing. The echo wasn’t behind me anymore.
I leaned closer until my forehead touched the cold surface of the glass. My reflection did too.
I gave myself a wry smile.
“Found you.”
“Now, don’t run.”
“Again.”
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