Chapter 4

But the daft bastard still wouldn't look at me. Just sat there, stiff as a bloody corpse, like rigor mortis had already done its job. There was something off about the way he was sitting, something that made my stomach twist, but not in the "I'm starving for a fry-up" kind of way.

His spine jutted out under his shirt like some kind of twisted, broken coat hanger. That thoracic bit, the curve or whatever it's called, was bent and mangled, like someone had taken a crowbar to it and snapped it clean in half.

It wasn't just weird—it was fucked.

I knew something was wrong.

"Jack?" My voice barely made it out. He didn't move. Didn't turn. Just sat there, frozen, stiff, like something long past dead. My skin crawled. My breath hitched.

"One… two… three. Dot. Dot. Dot." The words spilled out, automatically, like my brain was trying to keep me from losing it completely. My legs felt heavy, my whole body screaming at me to stop. But I had to see. I had to know.

I reached out, fingers shaking, just barely grazing his jaw. Cold. Too cold. Not like skin. Not like anything alive. Just smooth, and waxy.

I swallowed, my stomach twisting so hard it felt like it was trying to rip itself apart. I took his face in my hands, and lifted his head, slow, careful.

And then—then everything changed.

The world lurched, tilting on its axis like gravity itself had been rewritten. A sharp breath tore through my throat, ragged and broken, my body recoiling before my mind could catch up. I stumbled back, hitting the ground with a force that sent shockwaves up my spine, the rough grass scraping against my palms.

This wasn't Jack.

His face—his face was gone.

Just blank, stretched skin. No eyes. No mouth. No nose. Nothing. Like he was never real to begin with. Like someone had wiped him clean, erased him from existence. My analogy had been spot on; this was not the Jack I knew.

A distorted, high-pitched beep suddenly pierced the air, drilling into my skull like nails on a chalkboard. I couldn't tell if the sound was coming from the speakers around me or from somewhere deep inside my head.

It was sharp, and piercing, splitting my skull wide open. I pressed my hands to my ears. But that didn't help. Didn't do a damn thing. It just got worse, and worse, and worse.

And then, the memories came rushing back.

Like a freight train. Like a flood. Like the whole world just caved in on top of me, and I was too small, too broken to stop it.

Ma—our last meal together. Perfect, in that way things only are when you don't yet know they're ending. The scent of sizzling meat wafted through the air, mingling with the sweet fizz of raspberry soda, bubbles popping against my nose.

The hamburger sat warm in my hands, the bun was golden, the patty thick and glistening. The ketchup—oh, the ketchup!—dripped in slow, lazy ribbons, spilling over my fingers, painting them red like a child let loose with a brush and no rules. It oozed and curled, a river of tangy sweetness winding its way down, soaking into the fibers of my shirt.

Above the counter, an old chalkboard hung slightly crooked, its surface smudged with faint traces of yesterday's menu. "Today's Specials: Hamburgers & Raspberry Soda" was scrawled across it in looping, uneven handwriting, the chalk dust still fresh, like someone had just written it moments before. A perfect pairing. A perfect day.

I had laughed then, that light, weightless kind of laugh that bubbles up without a thought. Ma smiled at me, the corners of her lips curving like the crescent moon, her eyes crinkling in that way that made me feel safe like I belonged nowhere else but in that exact moment.

The ice in my soda clinked softly, the raspberries swirling in the glass like tiny, trapped stars, and when I took a sip, the sweetness fizzed on my tongue, bright and sharp, a taste too perfect to ever fade.

The sun had been kinder that day, too, dappling the table with golden light, turning everything soft, dreamy, unreal. I had tried to scrub the stain out of my shirt, rubbing at it until the fabric wore thin, but the red only deepened, sinking in, settling there, refusing to let go.

Strange, isn't it? How some things slip away, and others stay—engraved into fabric, into skin, into memory.

I glanced down at my shirt, and for a second, it felt like I was back in that moment. The stain was still there, fresh and sticky, seeping through the fabric.

That meal felt like a lifetime ago. But it wasn't. Just thirty days. Thirty days trapped in this graveyard of a playground, where time twisted and stretched, refusing to let me go.

I didn't know how I was still alive. Shouldn't have been. Every part of me ached, my stomach twisted up so tight it felt like it was eating itself from the inside out. My throat? Dry as a bone, cracked and raw, every breath scraping through it like sandpaper.

The only thing I'd managed to choke down was that moldy toast and jam—rancid, sickly sweet, the kind of taste that sticks to your tongue. Didn't matter how much I chewed, or how much I swallowed. It just sat there, rotting in my gut, useless.

I slumped on the same old bench where Aunt Winona would park herself, cracking sunflower seeds between her teeth, watching the world go by. But there was no world here. Just this playground, with rusted metal and peeling paint.

The swings creaked. Back and forth. Back and forth. No wind. No movement. But they swayed anyway. The chains screeched, this horrible, grating sound. Like the place itself was laughing at me.

That's when I noticed it.

Out of the corner of my eye.

The grass.

Something about it was off. The edges appeared jagged like they were peeling away. It was too deliberate, too unnatural like someone had sewn a poorly disguised patch over the ground.

My heart pounded. Hard. Fast. I dropped to my knees, hands shaking, clawing at the edges of the grass. It peeled up too easily, too smooth like it wasn't meant to be touched.

Then it hit me. The stench.

Thick, suffocating, curling up into my nose and settling in my throat like something rotten had crawled in and died.

It was the smell of damp earth and decay, mixed with the metallic tang of rust. My stomach churned, bile rising again, but I kept digging. My fingers worked frantically, tearing away the false ground until I uncovered a dark hole beneath.

I stared down into it, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

A tunnel.

Its entrance was small, barely large enough to fit through. The walls were slick with mud, streaked with what looked like old, dried blood. The tunnel pulsed faintly, as if it were alive, its shadows writhing and shifting.

Could I fit through? And if I could… where would it lead?

Escape or death. Those were my only options.

The faint light from the playground lamps illuminated the edges of the tunnel. I took a deep breath, the stench of decay filling my lungs.

We're always just one choice away—from ruin or salvation.

But what if the choice was never mine? What if every step I've taken, every decision I thought I made, was just another part of the system? A loop, running over and over, keeping me exactly where they want me?

I step into the tunnel, and maybe I escape. Maybe I don't. Maybe none of this is even real. But if it isn't—if this whole world is just a construct, built to keep me in line—then who the hell put me here? And more importantly… why?

Truth isn't a door you walk through. It's a threshold you're dragged across, kicking and screaming, whether you're ready or not. And once you see it, once you know—there's no going back.

So that's the question, isn't it? Do I keep running? Or do I finally wake up?

With one final glance at the playground, I lowered myself into the suffocating darkness.

The tunnel's walls closed in around me, the air thick and damp, but I forced myself to keep moving.

It was escape—or die trying. When it's life or death, stuff like claustrophobia doesn't matter. It's all noise. You don't have time for that when your body's trying to decide if it's going to keep moving or not. Fear, pain—they're just distractions. All that matters is getting out, getting through.