Kings Cross, Sydney — September 9th, 2008.
Night—12:16 A.M.
The tattoo parlour wasn't loud tonight. No bass in the walls, no heated banter. Just the low buzz of a needle and the faint scent of disinfectant and ink.
Danny leaned against the counter, watching a young guy get a sleeve tattoo—something complicated with birds and fire. The kid winced but didn't flinch.
Danny almost admired that. He looked down at his own knuckles. No fresh bruises tonight.
He didn't remember how he got here. Just…ended up. Like a piece that slid into the puzzle by accident.
The artist looked up. "You just watching tonight?"
Danny nodded. "Yeah. Not feeling it."
He lied. He didn't know what he was feeling.
He walked out after a while. The streets of Kings Cross were quieter than usual—just a few strangers, a drunk couple arguing by a kebab shop, someone playing guitar badly in alley.
Danny walked with his hands in his jacket pockets, feeling the tin of pills again. Same time, still unopened.
He took it out and stared at it under the streetlight. No label, no explanation. Just presence. A tiny rattle when he shook it.
Why did it scare him?
He passed a small bookstore—lights still on. The door was open, despite the hour.
Curious, he stepped in. A woman behind the counter gave him a brief glance, then went back to her book.
He wandered the shelves. Philosophy. That word caught him off-guard.
He paused at a section. 'Modern Life and Masculinity'
His hand moved without thinking—picked up a book. The title read. 'The Weight of Expectations:Men, Identity, and the Quiet Collapse.'
He casually flipped through a few pages.
[To be a man is to carry the unspeakable. A duty to protect, to provide, to endure—while burying weakness Deep where no one can see.]
Why did this feel familiar?
He closed the book quickly. He put it back and walked out of the store.
He hated feeling like that. Heavy. He wasn't built for that. But then he stopped mid-step.
He remembered a boy's voice. Small and Nervous. Saying lines about the solar system.
A school, a woman's proud face. A clapping audience.
He hadn't been there. But he remembered it. How?
He leaned against the bookstore's glass and breathed hard.
Who the hell was he?
There was something else in him now. A shadow of someone soft. Someone afraid. Someone…responsible.
And for the first time since he could remember, Danny felt something like shame. Not for what he'd done, but for what he hadn't been.
He pulled out the mint tin and opened it. Stared at the pills for a second.
He didn't know if taking them would make him forget or remember. But one way or another. The night was running out.
Winston Hills, Sydney — September 9th, 2008.
Morning, 9:40 A.M.
Daniel sat alone in the kitchen. The morning light broke through the blinds in straight, sharp lines—neat and clinical. The kettle had long stopped whistling. The tea had gone cold.
Claire had taken Ethan to school. Daniel said he needed a few minutes. That his head was hurting.
Truth was—he didn't want them to see him like this.
He stared at the wall, eyes blank, trying to remember the last three nights. Not fragments—but full memories. But all he got were feelings.
Noise, heat, movement, fear, excitement. And once, he swore he heard Ethan's voice while asleep…but the memory was so warped, it felt like a dream.
He didn't tell Claire. She already looked at him like he was ill. But he was slipping.
Not into madness, but something worse. Into doubt.
The kind that made you question whether you were real. Whether you were whole. Whether your life was just a surface stretched over something much darker and cracked underneath.
He looked down at his hands, which were trembling. He pressed them together.
What if there was someone else in him? What if his life was being borrowed, one half at a time?
He opened the kitchen drawer. Inside were receipts—and one crumpled note.
A bar tab, from a place he didn't recognise. Dated yesterday. The total was $37. Two points of lager. A shot of something. And a fight charge?
He threw the paper into the dustbin. Then slowly walked towards the mirror
His face looked the same. But….it didn't feel like his face. There was an exhaustion behind the eyes. A hollowness to the jawline. A bruise near his hairline, barely visible.
He pressed his forehead against the cool glass.
He remembered something he once read. 'A man is a mask that forgets it's a mask.'
And suddenly, Daniel felt like all he had been doing for months was pretending. Pretending to be the man everyone expects.
Stable, strong and steady.
But what if he wasn't? What if that was just…one side?
He turned from the mirror. The clock ticked. His phone buzzed—a message from Claire.
"Don't forget Ethan's parents meeting this Friday. I know things are hard. But we're still here."
Still here. Daniel held the phone close. He needed help. Or…maybe he needed the truth.