The world was a distant, muffled thing, separated from him by a thick pane of glass. Sounds reached him as if from the bottom of a deep well.
"…ke… up… Bradley."
The voice was a fragile thread, trying to pull him back from the abyss.
"Wake up."
Then, it snapped with the force of a thunderclap.
"WAKE UP, BRADLEY!"
Bradley's eyes flew open, gasping a ragged breath that burned his lungs. He was drowning in air. "Where am I?" he choked out, his voice a stranger's.
Golden sunlight streamed through the large windows, painting warm rectangles on the floor. The cheerful, indifferent chirping of sparrows filtered in from outside.
He blinked, his vision clearing to reveal the ornate molding of the ceiling. This was his room. But it was wrong. It was pristine, meticulously clean, devoid of the usual layers of dust, discarded clothes, and the heavy, stagnant air of neglect that had been his constant companion for years. What the hell am I doing here?
He looked down at his hands, turning them over. They weren't the skeletal, pale things he was used to. They were filled out, the bones properly sheathed in muscle and healthy flesh. He ran a hand over his chest, feeling the solidity there. He didn't look like a boy starving himself to death anymore.
"How is this possible?" The question was a whisper to the silent, sun-drenched room.
Then, the memories crashed over him like a cold wave—the nurse's twisted smile, the bloody cafeteria, the searing agony as crimson spikes erupted from his own body. A profound, weary understanding settled in his gut.
"Ah," he breathed out, the sound hollow. "So I died."
He sat up on the edge of the bed, the sheets impossibly soft beneath him. The absence was the most telling sign. The constant, low-level hum of Spirit Bradley's presence in the back of his mind was gone. Utterly silent.
That was quite the painful death... I wonder if the other me is still fighting without me... The thought was curiously detached. So, this is the afterlife? A dry, humorless chuckle escaped him. It's... quieter than I expected.
But as the initial shock faded, another sensation began to dawn, so foreign it was almost alarming.
For the first time in five years, the crushing weight of guilt was gone. The ever-present, gnawing pain in his heart had vanished. He felt... clean.
As if he had been scrubbed raw from the inside out, bathed in a light that had scoured away all the rot and grief. This room, his personal tomb, the place that had suffocated him with memories, now felt like a sanctuary. It felt like home.
"This feels nice..." he murmured, the words tasting strange on his tongue. A deep, aching nostalgia washed over him, not the painful kind, but a sweet, melancholy longing for a time before the world fell apart.
He was so lost in the surreal peace of it all that he didn't notice the figure standing in the doorway, watching him.
"Bradley?" a voice called his name.
It was a voice woven from the fabric of his most cherished dreams. Soft, warm, and laced with an unconditional love he had spent years trying to perfectly remember, terrified the memory would fade. The same voice that had scolded him for tracking mud on the carpets, that had read him stories until he fell asleep, that had sung softly to him when he was sick.
He didn't turn. He couldn't. It was a trick, a cruel final joke played by his dying mind. If he turned, it would shatter.
"Bradley?" she said again, a little closer.
He squeezed his eyes shut, then slowly, painfully, turned his head.
His entire body locked. I must be dreaming. He blinked rapidly, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, but the vision remained, solid and real.
"Ah... ah... ah..." Broken sounds were all he could manage. His breath hitched in his throat; his hands trembled violently where they rested on his knees. T-this isn't real. It can't be.
Standing there was the woman the world had stolen from him. The woman whose absence had carved a hole in the universe that could never be filled.
She had his same warm brown eyes, but where his were shadowed and hollow, hers were bright and clear, the color of rich earth in the autumn sun. Her skin was pale, and a cascade of vibrant red hair, the same shade as his own, was tied back in a practical yet elegant ponytail. She was, and would always be, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Despite every rational fiber screaming in denial, a desperate, wounded part of his soul strained toward her. "M-mom?" he managed, his voice cracking on the single, precious syllable.
"Yes, my child," she said, her face softening with a concern that was so uniquely *her*. "Why are you crying?"
She crossed the room, her steps silent on the plush carpet. When she reached his bedside, she reached out and gently cupped his face, her thumb wiping away the tears he hadn't even realized were falling.
Ah... Her touch was electric. It was real. It was the warmth he had ached for, the comfort he had believed was lost to him forever.
A sob broke free from his chest, and then the tears came in a torrent he couldn't stop. He leaned forward, collapsing against her, his arms wrapping around her as he buried his face in the familiar softness of her sweater. She startled for a second, a small, surprised "oh," before her arms came around him, holding him tight, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. Her scent—a mix of lavender and something uniquely her—enveloped him, and for the first time in half a decade, Bradley felt safe.
They stood like that for a long time, the only sound his ragged, muffled sobs against her shoulder.
"Did you have a bad dream, son?" she asked after his tears had subsided to quiet sniffles, her voice a gentle murmur as she stroked his hair.
Bradley nodded, not loosening his hold, terrified she would vanish. "Yes," he whispered, his voice thick. "A very, very long and bad dream, Mom."
"Aw, my poor child," she cooed, her hand making soothing circles on his back. "Tell me about it."
And he did. He told her everything. The car accident. The hollow years. The spirits. The other Bradley. The fight in the cafeteria, the mutilated bodies, the nurse's monstrous feast. He poured out five years of torment, his words tumbling out in a rushed, chaotic confession.
His mother listened in silence, her expression growing progressively sadder, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, as if his "dream" was a shared, painful history.
"It was hard, wasn't it?" she said softly when he finished, her voice full of a profound understanding that reached into the deepest, most broken parts of him.
"Yeah," he breathed, "but it's all fine now. I'm finally with you, and that's all that matters." He smiled, a real, unburdened smile that stretched muscles long unused. He meant it. Every second of pain, every moment of despair, was a price he would pay a thousand times over to be here, in her arms.
If God really exists, he thought, I am so, so grateful to you.
She looked down at him, her kind smile not quite reaching her sad eyes. It was the same smile he had replayed in his mind a million times. The smile he had failed to protect.
"Nightmares happen, my child," she said, her tone lightening with effort. "Even though you're getting so big and tall, you're never too old for them. Even I get them sometimes."
"What kind of nightmares do you have, Mom?" he asked, genuinely curious, savoring the normalcy of the conversation.
"Nightmares where I can't play with my baby's cheeks!" she declared, her hands darting up to cup his face, her fingers gently squishing his flesh as she giggled, a sound like wind chimes.
"Mom, I'm not a baby anymore!" he protested, though he made no move to pull away. A familiar, fond annoyance bloomed in his chest. "Stop playing with my cheeks, and you're too old to be acting like this!"
"Hah? Look at this young man, calling his dear mother old?" she teased, now pinching his cheeks and pulling them playfully, stretching them like putty. "No matter how old you get, you will always, always be my baby. And I will never, ever stop playing with these adorable cheeks!" she declared with a triumphant giggle.
Bradley finally chuckled, shaking his head as much as her grip would allow, the biggest, most genuine smile he'd ever worn plastered on his face.
After a few more minutes of this blissful, childish torment, she released his face and stood, offering him her hand. "Come with me."
He took it without hesitation, his smaller hand disappearing into hers. It was a gesture that sent him rocketing back through time, to crowded streets and busy parks, her grip always there to make sure he never got lost.
She led him to the balcony doors of his room. He followed quietly, content to be led. She slid the glass door open, and they stepped out into the crisp, clean air.
The garden below was a masterpiece of vibrant life. It was a sprawling tapestry of emerald green, dotted with bursts of color from flowers he couldn't name, all meticulously cared for. The morning sun made the dewdrops on the leaves glitter like scattered diamonds.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she said, a note of pride in her voice.
"It is," Bradley agreed softly, his eyes drinking in a view he had actively avoided for years. The beauty had been too painful a reminder of what was lost.
"Your room always had the best view of the garden. You weren't even born yet when your father and I planted this," she mused, her gaze distant with memory.
"I remember," Bradley said, the words feeling fragile. "I remember always seeing you down there, watering the plants, whenever I woke up early." The memory, which for years had been a shard of glass in his heart, now felt soft, bittersweet.
He leaned on the cool stone railing, and they lapsed into a comfortable, warm silence. It was a quiet that spoke of love and understanding, a language they had both been fluent in once.
After a few minutes, his mother turned and pulled him into another tight hug, her chin resting on top of his head. He was still shorter than her; she had always been tall, 1.8 meters, a steady presence looking down on him.
"What's wrong, Mom?" he asked, his voice muffled by her sweater.
"I'm so sorry, my child," she whispered, and he could feel the tremor in her body. "I'm so sorry for leaving you so early." A tear fell from her cheek and landed in his hair. "You were only ten years old. There was so much more I wanted to teach you, so much more I wanted to see... and now it's impossible."
Bradley's face scrunched in confusion. "What do you mean? I'm here with you now. You can teach me everything now, Mom," he said, his grip tightening.
"You have to wake up, Bradley." Her voice was firm, laced with a heartbreaking sorrow. "I know it's hard. I know it's the hardest thing anyone could ever ask of you. But you have to keep going. You are so much stronger than you know. There is still so much of your life left to live; it's too early for you to join us here."
Why is she crying? What have I done wrong? His mind raced, trying to find a reason for her tears, but found none. The sight of them caused a pain deeper than any physical wound, a rending in his very soul.
"Why are you cry—" he began, but she cut him off, her words rushing out.
"Even if you can't do it for yourself, do it for me. Do it for us." Her voice broke. "I know it's cruel. I know it's selfish of me to ask this of you after all the suffering you've endured. But no parent should ever have to watch their own child die. I can't let you go. Not yet." She gave him a trembling, tear-streaked smile. "So, please... forgive me for this. And it's okay if you can't."
Forgiveness? The word made no sense. What is she talking about? What could I possibly need to forgive her for? And why can I not be with her?
"What do you mean—?" His question turned into a gasp of disbelief as she placed her hands on his chest and gave him a gentle, but firm, push.
He stumbled backwards, his hands flailing, grabbing for the railing and finding only empty air.
"Huh? Why did you push me, Mom?!" he cried out, tumbling over the edge into the void.
"Live, Bradley!" her voice called after him, already growing distant. "No matter how cruel the world is, I will always be watching over you! There's more to this world than you think!"
Those were the last words he heard before the ground rushed up to meet him.
Thud.
Darkness consumed him.