Only The Dreams Know Him

The knife was still in my hand. My fingers were wrapped tightly around the handle, my grip stiff, like my hand didn’t belong to me anymore. The blade was dark and wet, reflecting the light in broken lines. I looked down. There was a body on the floor—not whole, not human anymore, cut apart and left in pieces. It lay there in three parts,placed apart as if someone had tried—and failed—to put it back together. One piece near my feet. Another closer to the wall. The last turned away from me, like it didn’t want to be seen. My stomach twisted. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. Blood covered everything, soaking into the floor, spreading slowly, quietly. The room smelled heavy—thick with metal and death. I tried to drop the knife. My hand wouldn’t open. “What did I do?”I whispered. My voice sounded wrong—flat,empty. Like I already knew the answer. A sharp pain hit my head. Images flashed in my mind: screaming, a raised arm, the sound of something hitting flesh. I pressed my free hand to my forehead, but it only made the knife shake harder. The room felt wrong. Too still. Too silent. I felt watched. My breath came fast and shallow. My chest hurts. I wanted to look away from the body, but my eyes stayed locked on it, as if this was something I was supposed to remember. Blood dripped from the blade. One drop. Then another. The sound echoed louder than it should have. Then— I woke up. I sat straight up in bed, gasping. My heart slammed against my ribs. The room was dark, quiet, and familiar. My hands were empty. I looked at them. No knife. No blood. Just shaking fingers and cold skin. It was a dream. That’s what I told myself. But the weight of the knife still lingered in my hand. And somewhere deep inside me, I felt something worse than fear. I felt recognition.