Cowards Cannot Die

The room stank of sweat, old food, and something else. Something rotten. It had been years since the window was last opened, years since the outside world had seen the man who lived within these walls. Not because he was a prisoner. Because he chose to be. Or maybe, he hadn't. Maybe the world had chosen for him.

The laptop screen glowed faintly in the darkness, the only source of light. The only connection to something that resembled life. Click. Click. Click. The sound of keys, the hum of a fridge barely working, the distant buzz of neon lights outside. These were the only reminders that time was still moving forward. The only proof that he still existed.

He had stopped looking in mirrors long ago. But the world had mirrors everywhere. In phone screens, in reflections on subway windows, in the disgusted expressions of strangers. His face had never been his own. It belonged to the whispers, the turned heads, the quiet sneers barely hidden behind fake politeness. Ugly. Deformed. Disgusting.

He never knew what was worse—the ones who looked too much, or the ones who refused to look at all.

His mother didn't look anymore. She hadn't for years. She never knocked on his door. Never asked if he was okay. It was easier for her to pretend he didn't exist.

Maybe she was right.

He had tried to die once. Long ago. The memory felt foreign now, like something that had happened to someone else. He had sat in the bathtub, razor pressed against skin, the cold metal biting in just enough to draw a thin red line. But something had stopped him. Not fear. Not regret. Something else.

Cowards cannot die.

The thought had come from nowhere, sinking deep into his mind. It had lived there ever since.

The food delivery notification blinked on his phone. He had ordered pizza. Extra cheese. Not because he wanted it, but because it was a routine. A predictable loop. The only thing in his life that didn't change.

The buzzer rang.

He pulled the hoodie over his face before opening the door, eyes fixed on the ground. Money exchanged hands. The delivery boy hesitated, then muttered, "Have a good night, sir."

A lie.

He shut the door, peeled the cardboard lid open. The cheese glistened under the dim light. Steam rose into the stale air. It smelled like nothing. He took a bite. The texture was there, the act of chewing, swallowing. But the taste was gone. Had it always been like this?

He stood up, stretching his legs. The air in the room felt thick. His fingers twitched. Something was wrong. Something was different tonight.

And then, for the first time in years—he walked to the mirror.

It was covered in dust, its edges chipped. His reflection stood there, vague and unclear. He reached out, wiping the glass with trembling fingers. His own face stared back at him.

His lips curled downward. His eyes, sunken and lifeless, bore into his own. The same face. The same ugliness. The same mistake of nature.

And then—

The reflection grinned at him.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The reflection grinned at him.

His breath caught in his throat.

It wasn't a trick of the light. It wasn't exhaustion or hallucination.

Slow. Wide. Teeth bared in something that was neither human nor a smile.

His stomach twisted. His knees locked. His chest felt tight, the room suddenly too small, the walls pressing in.

He turned, stumbling back, but the reflection remained. Not copying him. Not following his movement. Just standing there. Grinning.

His hands trembled as he grabbed the edge of the sink. His pulse thundered in his ears. His mind screamed at him to run. To hide.

But something deep inside whispered—

Open the door.

And so, for the first time in years, he did.

The hallway smelled of alcohol and cigarette smoke. His mother lay slumped on the couch, an empty bottle rolling against the floor beside her. Her makeup was smeared. The dress she wore was the same one he had seen her in countless times before—cheap, revealing, something meant for someone half her age.

She didn't stir as he passed her.

He reached the front door. His fingers brushed the handle.

For years, this threshold had been a wall, an unbreakable barrier between him and them. But tonight, it was nothing more than a line in the dust.

He stepped outside.

The world hit him all at once. The neon lights, the honking cars, the night air thick with pollution and city rot. The pavement felt foreign under his feet, like he had never truly walked on it before.

People moved past him, their conversations blending into a blur of meaningless noise. He kept his head down, hoodie pulled low. He just needed to walk. Needed to move. Needed to prove to himself that he still could.

But then—

"Jesus, look at him."

A voice. Not whispered. Not hidden. Said just loud enough for him to hear.

He froze.

A man and a woman stood nearby, the glow of a cigarette between them. The man sneered, exhaling smoke through his nostrils.

"Fucking disgusting," he muttered, shaking his head. "Some people shouldn't be outside."

The woman didn't argue. Didn't protest. She just looked away.

And for some reason—that was worse.

He turned on his heel, walking back, faster this time. His chest ached. His stomach curled. His breath came in short, uneven gasps.

Why did I come out? Why did I think it would be different?

He reached his building. Climbed the stairs two at a time. His mother was still passed out on the couch. The smell of cheap perfume and old liquor clung to the walls.

His hands shook as he locked the door behind him.

The room was exactly the same. The same filth. The same silence. The same suffocating emptiness.

He sat down. Picked up his phone. Ordered another pizza.

The cycle needed to continue. He needed the routine. The predictability.

The buzzer rang.

Too soon.

He frowned, getting up. His legs felt heavier now. He opened the door, expecting the usual. A bored delivery boy. A warm box in hand. An exchange of money and silence.

Instead—

It's the police.

They look at him. Then, they look past him.

At his mother.

Then, back at him.

Silence.