Suffocation.

 There is glass on the floor, shattered, and tinted red. My hand glides itself along my chest in a manner that reflects patterned movements and bears the trademark of practice. The absence of a heartbeat overwhelmed me, but my body reflects none of it, my palm remains steady and mimics the movements of my chest, a sharp rise followed by a slow descent. I feel tears, ones I was unaware were leaving my eyes, move across my cheek as they drip off. My sight, surprisingly clear considering the tears, turns toward my feet — red and bloody. 

I see the blood leak out of my soles, from the large punctures and the smaller cuts — but my mind doesn’t permit itself to register the pain, only the warmth of the liquid. My legs involuntarily march forward, slowly and calmly as if they were walking on grass. There are chains around my wrists, appearing to be red hot, and yet I feel no heat. They drag on the floor and with the weight of something on the other end. I try to stop and look, but against my will, my legs do not stop. 

In the distance, I see a figure. There echoes a sound from its direction — one that I'm unable to make out. Sparked by curiosity, my legs run faster and faster— towards the figure. As my body gets closer, I identify the figure as a child. He’s dressed in a white robe, as iridescent as a pearl. The sound of weeping comes from, but no tears adorn his pale face. My body kneels before him, I’ve never met this child before, but his eyes seem familiar. 

The floor is now black, there is no more glass on it, nor the red of my blood. The air feels heavier and rougher — in a way I do not recognize. The sound of his weeping has gotten “blurred,” now that I am closer. I reach towards his face, and try to speak— but no voice leaves my mouth, rather a sharp scream of what sounds like multiple voices, echoes from every direction. Every time I open my mouth, the boy looks at me and shudders. I notice two glowing white masses behind him, two swans, headless. An inky liquid drips out of their necks. I notice the chains around me have vanished and have reappeared next to the child.

His cry is now silent.

He stretches out his hands towards me. On his palm, there are seven pearls, white. There appears to be a mirror behind us, and then suddenly I find myself suddenly standing in front of it. In my reflection, I see a black mass with pupils as white as pearls.No, no, no. The mass looks beautiful, thin-framed, and with a featureless face. I voluntarily reached out to it, trying to hold it. But the closer my hand gets to the mirror, the more I notice the body getting deformed. It appears to be getting thicker. No longer beautiful, no longer thin, no longer featureless, no longer perfect. I feel my mouth open as a scream of many voices begins to echo from every direction, shattering the mirror. A cry, ugly and raspy, comes from inside me.

I bring my hands to my mouth and stuff two fingers in it, not permitting my voice to leave my throat. It feels like hours have passed, and yet I haven't stopped crying. In tiredness, I close my eyes.

It feels like hours have passed and yet I haven't stopped crying. In tiredness, I close my eyes. When I open them again, my body feels weightless and falling.

But as soon as I take my first breath, a heavy silence descends. 

The black mass, now deformed and no longer beautiful, has its hands around the child's neck. Although I see distantly from the mass, it feels as such the neck is in my hand, but my eyes now see through the child's. I struggle to escape the mass's grasp, but hitting him hurts myself. I feel my feet searing as if there are shards in them. My hands burn as if there is a hot metal chain around it. I cry loudly as I reach out to the mass's chest, cutting it open as if it were made out of cardboard. I feel a spark, and no longer able to breathe because of his hands around my neck. I pull back. The mass stops moving and then vanishes, disappears, only leaving a beating heart in its place. 

I cringe in fear, my breath growing softer. Next to the heart, there are seven pearls from before, now black. In the child's body, my hands reach out to the pearls and grab them. And now I am once again distant from the child and in my own body, and yet too far to stop the child as it swallows the pearls.

Back in my body, I kneel before the child, two of my fingers in his mouth. I cry as I feel the struggle in his breath, and then — his struggle against me stops. His body goes numb.

I stand and look at his eyes, unaware of why until I realize his eyes are mine.