Echoes of the Drag

The cigarette was impossibly light in his fingers, yet somehow heavier than anything he’d ever held. Kade twirled it absently, thumb brushing over the strange, embossed surface. His breath caught in his throat for a moment, the sounds of the house around him dulling, smearing like wet paint. He could still hear Riven’s laughter from the dining room—sharp, clean, too real. Vera’s polite hums of agreement. The clatter of silverware. It was all so... normal. And yet, for some reason, it felt fake. Scripted. Like he was an actor in someone else's play and no one had told him his lines. > (You feel it too, don’t you? This weird... wrongness. This paper-thin layer between what’s real and what’s rotting underneath.) His fingers twitched. The cigarette case clicked shut. “Are you coming or not?” Vera’s voice cut through the air like a blade. She didn’t even look at him as she set plates on the table. Her smile? Mechanical. Practiced. Kade forced himself to stand. The cigarette burned in his pocket, cold but searing at the same time. Dinner was a blur. Words passed over him—mundane chatter, forced laughter. He sat, silent, eyes fixed on the steam rising from his untouched food. Riven grinned too wide. Vera’s voice dripped with artificial sweetness. And his father? Absent. Like always. Probably somewhere “solving problems” that mattered more than the son he left behind. The weight in his pocket never left. Neither did the quiet voice in the back of his mind: Smoke it. Later. His bedroom. Faded posters on peeling walls. A cracked window. A life half-lived. Kade sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at the cigarette now resting on his palm. He didn’t know why he brought it here. He didn’t even smoke. Something about it... It felt like a key. Or maybe a trap. > (You’re still here? Watching? Hoping something exciting happens? Cute.) (Or maybe you’re like me—waiting for the moment everything breaks.) His lips twitched into a humorless smile. “Why not,” he whispered, almost to himself, almost to... whoever was listening. He lit it. The first drag hit like ice. Cold. Sharp. And then— The world snapped. Colors bent. Walls shivered. Time itself seemed to ripple, slither sideways—like his room had slipped into a reflection of itself, warped and melted. Kade gasped, clutching his chest. His heartbeat sounded distorted—like it was echoing through water. “W-What—” A voice—not his own—whispered in the back of his skull. > Welcome. The room was no longer his room. The window showed a sky that bled. The air tasted metallic. And for a single breathless second—he saw something watching him. A shape, a figure—shadowy, shifting—right there in the corner of his eye— And then— Nothing. He jolted awake. Back in his room. The cigarette—burned to ash. Only a second had passed. Maybe less. His breath trembled. He touched his face, his chest, his arms. He was still... here. But something felt off. Very, very off. The clock on his wall was frozen. 3:03 AM. The second hand twitched. And twitched. And twitched. His hands shook as he stood, stumbling toward the mirror. And for the first time—he noticed it. The faintest black mark. Thin, barely visible, curling across the inside of his wrist. Like a whisper. Like a scar. He stared at his reflection. Pale. Fractured. His eyes— For a heartbeat— Did not look like his own. > (And just like that, the story began.)