Chapter 5
Carter opened his eyes.
For a long moment, he didn't move. Morning light slipped through the curtains, pale and heavy, dust hanging in its path. The air felt thick — too still for morning. His mind refused to start. It just hummed, low and empty, like static from a dead channel.
He lay there, unmoving. Thought wouldn't come. His heart felt distant — beating from somewhere far away.
And then—
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The alarm tore through the stillness.
He flinched hard, breath catching. For half a second, it wasn't an alarm — it was a horn. A warhorn. The echo rolled through him, dragging something cold from his gut.
He jerked upright. The world tilted. His legs gave way when he tried to stand, as if his body had forgotten how to move. The carpet under his feet felt wrong — soft, too soft.
He stumbled into the bathroom. Light flooded the room when he flicked the switch — too bright, too sharp. He dropped to his knees. Cold tiles against skin.
He barely lifted the lid before the nausea hit — again and again, until only bile was left.
When it stopped, the sound of his breathing felt foreign — ragged and too loud in the cramped space. He was shaking, sweat slick down his back.
"This can't be happening," he whispered. "It was just a dream. Just a fucking dream…"
His voice cracked halfway through. He spat, wiped his mouth. Tried to breathe.
Then he looked up — and froze.
The mirror stared back.
Faint, almost unnoticeable, but real — strands of yellow hair clung to his forehead like static, pale gold under the light.
His stomach lurched again.
"No… no, no, no—"
He gripped the sink until his palms ached. The porcelain felt alive, pulsing faintly beneath his fingers. His reflection shimmered — breathing with him, or maybe without him. For a moment, he wasn't sure which side of the glass he was on.
He yanked the drawer open. Scissors clattered against porcelain.
"How would I even tell someone this?" he muttered.
"Yeah, sure. 'Hey Mom, my dream's leaking into reality.' That'll go well."
A small, broken laugh escaped him — half air, half disbelief.
Then he saw it.
A thin white scar crossing his left wrist.
The same place the knight had been cut.
He froze. Then anger, sharp and sour, bled through the shock. He pressed his thumb into the mark, hard.
"I'm not him," he whispered. "I'm not him."
The scissors trembled in his grip. He raised them — but stopped when the door creaked open.
"Carter?"
He turned. His mother stood there, apron on, eyes narrowed in irritation.
"What on earth are you doing first thing in the morning?"
He blinked. Words scrambled.
"I… I just needed to pee."
"With scissors?"
He looked down. The metal glinted accusingly in his hand.
"I—uh… wanted to cut my hair. It looked weird."
A pause. Her gaze lingered — suspicion, faint but real.
"Fine. Just don't make a mess. If you do, you clean it up."
She sighed. "Kids these days."
The door closed again.
He stayed still — and then sank to the floor. His hands gripped his head, fingers digging into his scalp. His breathing came too fast.
Memories flickered — not full images, just fragments. Screams. The girl's eyes. The sound of steel and bone. The weight of the sword, heavy and right.
He wanted to cry. To scream. But only a hollow breath escaped him.
His mother's voice floated down the hall.
"Get ready! You're already late!"
He wiped his face. The mirror stared back. The hair. The scar. Both real.
"I don't want to go," he whispered. "How am I supposed to pretend to be normal?"
But what excuse could he give?
He had a nightmare and woke up wrong? He'd have better luck saying aliens did it.
So he got dressed. The world felt off — muffled, slowed.
The faucet shocked him with cold water. He flinched back, heart hammering. Just water. Just water.
Breakfast didn't help. The bacon's heat felt too close, the smell too rich. When he bit into it, he almost cried — it tasted real. Too real.
He walked to school. The streets looked normal but felt tilted, like gravity had shifted by a degree. Every sound was sharp. Every shadow lingered too long.
He blinked, and suddenly he was at the gate. He didn't remember walking there.
By the time he reached class, it was almost empty. He dropped into his seat. Old habits told him to nap before the bell.
He leaned forward — then froze.
"No," he muttered. "Not again."
He stayed awake.
Class dragged. Adam kept glancing at him but said nothing — mercy. Until the break.
A hand clapped his shoulder.
His body locked. Instinct took over. He spun, shoving hard.
Adam stumbled back, wide-eyed.
"Jesus, man! What the hell?"
"Don't—touch me," Carter said. Too loud.
The class turned.
Adam frowned. "What crawled up your ass? I just said hi."
Carter's chest tightened. The noise, the eyes. Too much.
"Just… don't."
Adam blinked. "You've been quiet as hell lately. Even for you. Something happen?"
For a heartbeat, Carter almost told him. About the hair. The scar. The dream.
But the words tangled.
"No. Just didn't sleep. Little jumpy."
Adam smirked. "So, the usual Carter, huh?"
The teacher entered. "What's going on here?"
"Nothing," Adam said quickly. Then, leaning close:
"If it's serious, you can talk, man."
Carter nodded absently. Yeah right.
By lunchtime, the day was already over.
He left with the others — Adam surrounded by his crowd, Chris chattering about midterms. Carter followed behind, silent.
Someone — Tyler, maybe — suggested they hang out. "We always get home too early," he said. "Let's grab food or something."
Everyone agreed. Even Chris. That never happened.
Carter hesitated. Their laughter sounded too bright. Their faces too alive.
When Adam turned toward him — "You coming, man?" — Carter forced a smile.
"Nah. I've got stuff to do."
Adam tilted his head. "What stuff?"
"Just—stuff. Homework."
Their gazes shifted — small, weighted, assessing. He could feel it: What's wrong with him?
He turned away. The feeling followed him all the way down the street.
The air outside pressed against him, heavy and slow. Every car horn sounded like an echo from another world.
By the time he got home, dusk had settled.
His mother looked up from the sink. "Oh, you're early. How was school?"
"It was fine."
She nodded. "Good. Dinner soon."
That was it. Her tone was even, rehearsed. He wanted to tell her everything — make it sound absurd so it would lose its power — but he couldn't. She wouldn't believe him. Maybe no one could.
Dinner passed quietly. Forks. Plates. Her voice about groceries. He nodded in rhythm, automatic.
Later, he sat in his room, watching the car lights crawl across his walls. His hand traced the faint scar beneath his sleeve.
Maybe he should see someone. A doctor. A therapist. But what could he say?
"Hi, I think I lived someone else's life, and it's following me home."
Yeah. Perfect.
He laughed once — hollow, airless — and opened his mother's cabinet. Coffee jars, old and dusty.
He brewed one cup. Then another. Then another.
The bitterness stopped registering after the third.
He sat at his desk. The screen glowed dim blue. His eyes burned. Every time his head dipped, he slapped himself awake.
2:14. 3:03. 4:20.
Time blurred. Coffee turned cold. He blinked. The world tilted.
He could hear something faint under the hum of the monitor.
A low vibration. Maybe the fridge. Maybe the house settling.
Maybe not.
He tried to focus on the clock. Numbers swam. His vision tunneled.
His head dropped forward.
"Not again," he muttered. "Not—"
Sleep swallowed the rest.
The monitor dimmed. His breath steadied, shallow and uneven.
Somewhere deep in the dark, something hummed — a single tone, drawn out and almost familiar.
Then came the faintest sound.
A slow, deliberate creak.
The door was waiting.
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