Chapter 1: The Voice in My Head
Forks was a town that seemed built out of mist and melancholy. The rain was a constant hush, the kind of quiet that makes your thoughts louder. And mine? They never shut up.
"You're going to miss breakfast again, Ethan."
The voice wasn't mine, but it was in my head. Calm, cold, and flat. I used to think it was just me thinking aloud, like people do. It never yelled, never panicked. It just... watched. Protected. And I didn't question it.
I threw on my hoodie and padded barefoot down the hallway. Mom was in the kitchen, pretending again. She sipped coffee like a normal mom, flipping through a magazine she never read. Her eyes flicked up just long enough to make sure I saw the mask was on.
"Morning," I said.
She didn't answer.
The silence was louder than the rain.
---
They say everyone has two sides, but I don't think they mean it like I do. Mine has a voice. One that only speaks when I'm about to do something stupid, or when things get bad.
Really bad.
I was nine the first time he took over. I don't remember much. Just waking up on the floor with bruises I didn't feel until later. The kitchen was wrecked. Mom said I'd thrown a tantrum.
I didn't cry. Not because I didn't want to. Because I couldn't. He wouldn't let me.
And now I know why.
---
I don't go to school. Not yet.
Mom says it's because of the move, the paperwork, the timing — whatever lie sounds easiest that day. But I know better.
I stay inside mostly. Read. Watch old tapes. Wander the yard when it's not raining too hard. I like the fog. It makes the world quiet, like my thoughts.
Sometimes I talk to myself. Out loud. The neighbors don't come around, so no one notices. And if they do, I guess they just assume I'm lonely.
They're not wrong.
But I'm never really alone.
---
At night, it gets worse.
Mom drinks. Not every night. Just the ones where she remembers he left.
The first glass shatters. Then the yelling starts. Then the shoving. Then he comes out.
My second voice. My shield.
I don't feel the bruises until the next morning. I don't remember what I said, what she screamed, what broke. I only know he kept me safe.
He always keeps me safe.
And she knows.
She never talks about him. But there's a look she gives me — like she's not sure which one of us is standing in front of her. Like she's afraid I'll snap.
But I never do. He does.
And he made a deal with her a long time ago.
Let him be the one you hurt.
Just leave the boy alone.
---
I sleep on the floor most nights. The bed creaks too loud and makes her angry. I read by flashlight until my eyes blur. Then I lie there in the dark, listening to the wind against the windows.
Sometimes, I ask him questions.
"Are you real?"
Silence.
"Are you me?"
More silence.
Then, finally: "I'm what you needed."
I don't know what that means.
But I believe him.
---
Outside, under the broken moon, something stirs in the woods.
Not wolves.
Something older.
My name is Ethan.
And I'm not alone in my own head.