Have you ever felt so miserable that you just wanted to disappear?
Not die, not exactly. Just… cease to exist?
Vanish without a trace, as if your worthless life had never been?
---
Darkness smothered the room like a heavy blanket, broken only by the faint glow of a digital clock and the soft rhythm of a boy's breathing. The silence was almost perfect—until the ticking began to press against it.
Tick-tock.
Tick-tock.
Each sound drilled deeper into the quiet, as if mocking the stillness, counting down to nothing.
Then, without warning, the phone on the nightstand screamed to life.
Riiing~!
The boy groaned and shifted under his tangled sheets, half-buried in the warmth of sleep and the weight of exhaustion. He tried to ignore it. The sound persisted, shrill and grating, vibrating against the wooden surface like a mosquito trapped in his skull.
With a low growl, he flung out his arm.
"Fuck, will you just shut up?!"
He fumbled until his palm hit the phone, silencing the alarm with a sharp smack. A jolt of pain shot through his wrist.
"Argh—tsk."
He brought the screen close to his face. The faint light reflected off the dark circles under his eyes.
[5:09 AM]
"I woke up again," he muttered, his lips twisting into something that wasn't quite a smile.
He sat up, bones creaking, and his gaze drifted to the empty pill bottle on the nightstand.
"Effective, my ass."
For several long minutes, he sat there in silence, letting the weight of the dark settle on his shoulders.
"Why can't I just die in my sleep?" he whispered. "Why do I have to keep waking up?"
His eyes wandered toward the ceiling, as if searching for an answer that would never come. "Answer me, oh God."
Only the clock replied.
Tick-tock.
Tick-tock.
A hollow laugh escaped his throat. "Of course. I wonder if you even exist."
He sighed, a sound that carried years of fatigue, and pushed himself to his feet. The floor was a minefield of discarded clothes, plastic wrappers, and half-eaten takeout boxes. Each step made the debris crackle underfoot.
"Tsk. I really need to clean this place," he muttered, though his tone held no real intent.
He stopped in front of the mirror attached to his wardrobe and stared.
He hated what looked back.
Brown eyes, dull and lifeless.Skin the color of old peanut butter, uneven, scarred.A mop of curly red hair that stuck up in all directions. His frame was fragile—thin arms, narrow shoulders, skin stretched over bone. His body was a battlefield of bruises and fading cuts.
His face was a rebellion against beauty: a broad nose, hollow cheeks, a weak jawline, and skin peppered with acne.
He used to never care. But now—
"Fucking ugly bastard," he spat. The words hit the mirror like stones. Looking any longer made his stomach twist. He turned away.
The light flickered on, revealing the chaos that had taken over the room. It smelled faintly of sweat, stale food, and dust. The air was thick. Oppressive.
"I should clean," he said, voice empty. "But what's the point? No one ever visits."
He shuffled into the bathroom, the tiles cold against his feet. He turned on the shower and waited, the water coughing to life before warming. Winter made everything hurt more—the air, the memories, even breathing.
He stepped under the spray. The hot water hit his bruises like fire, and he hissed through his teeth.
After a string of curses, he shut the water off and stepped out, wrapping a thin towel around his frail body.
Every movement was a reminder of his fragility.
Back at the wardrobe, he reached for his school uniform—white with blue trim, neat and ironed by someone else's hands.
"Why do I have to go to school?" he mumbled. "Can't I just rot here?"
He let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. "It's funny, isn't it? I'm still here after all those pills. I thought for sure… but I guess fate has other plans."
He stared into his reflection again. "Oh, and fuck Google."
He remembered the night before—searching in the dim glow of his screen. Which medications can kill if consumed in large doses. He'd read every result, ordered everything he could find, and swallowed them all. He had gone to bed with a smile, comforted by the idea that by morning, he'd be free.
But morning came anyway. No pain. No sickness. No death. Just another miserable dawn.
"Let me guess," he said to his reflection, his tone dripping with venom. "On top of this monstrosity of a face, I now have a body immune to meds?"
He laughed—loud, wild, deranged. The sound clawed at the walls.
"Fucking hilarious… don't you think?"
From the corner of his eye, movement. Another him stood beside the mirror—same face, same scars, same weary eyes.
"Yeah, I agree, Bradley," the other him said, smiled faintly.
He was losing his mind, and he knew it.
"You know I hate it when you call me by my name," Bradley muttered. "It's creepy."
"I am you. What's wrong with calling you by your name?"
"That's why it's weird! Isn't it weird to hear your own voice saying your name back at you?"
"Okay," the other Bradley said with a shrug. "Fair point."
The hallucination—if that's what it was—had appeared months ago.
Right after his parents' accident.
At first, he thought it was a ghost, a shape-shifter, something otherworldly wearing his skin. But no—it was more personal than that. More invasive. It was real enough to touch, to talk to, to argue with.
"Shit. I really went crazy," he muttered.
"Yeah, you did," the other him replied casually. "Now move your ass. We've got school."
"Tsk. Don't say we, like you actually go. You just hover around like a ghost."
"Same thing."
Bradley scowled, finished dressing, and slung his bag over his shoulder. As he reached for the door, he froze.
Across the hall stood the door to his parents' bedroom.
His expression darkened. The other him mirrored it perfectly.
He still blamed himself. For everything.
The argument, the slammed door, the way they'd left early because of him. The phone call that never came. The news that shattered him.
He had wanted to say sorry. Just once. But sorry doesn't bring back the dead.
Now, guilt was the only company he had left.
"If only I hadn't gotten angry… if only…" His thoughts spiraled. "They might still have been alive. What a fucking piece of shit I am."
His throat tightened. "I'm so sorry, Mom. Dad."
Why does nostalgia hurt more than it heals?
A single tear rolled down his cheek, catching the dim light before falling. He stood there, silent, letting it all ache, before finally turning away. He wiped his face roughly and started down the hall.
The walls were lined with portraits of happier times—his parents' warm smiles, his own childish grin frozen in frames that now felt like gravestones.
He descended the staircase into the grand living room of the mansion his parents had left behind. The marble floors gleamed, too polished for someone so broken. Maids moved quietly in the background, lowering their heads as he passed.
He said nothing. Words felt too heavy.
At the entrance, a tall, thin man stood beside a black limousine with smoked windows. His silver hair was neatly combed back, and he had kind, though weary, eyes.
"Good morning, Young Master Bradley," Vuitton said, his soft French accent almost musical.
"Morning, Vuitton."
Vuitton had served his parents for decades—before Bradley was even born. He was the last thread of warmth in this hollow house.
"Did you eat, Young Master?" Vuitton asked, concern flickering in his eyes.
"No. I'm not hungry."
"But you must eat. Look how thin you are becoming."
Vuitton reached out gently, circling Bradley's wrist with his thumb and forefinger. The fit was loose—too loose. His voice trembled. "What would your parents think of me if I failed to care for you properly?''
Bradley froze. His chest tightened as he saw the old man's shoulders shake.
"I know it is hard," Vuitton whispered. "Losing your parents at fourteen…" His voice broke, then steadied again. "But please—do not harm yourself."
Bradley swallowed hard. "Okay," he whispered. "I'll try. So please… don't cry."
Vuitton smiled faintly, brushing away his tears. "Thank you, Young Master. How unprofessional of me."
He opened the limousine door, and Bradley slid inside.
The car rolled smoothly down the cobblestone drive. The mansion grew smaller in the window, swallowed by trees and mist.
Inside, silence filled the space. The other him sat across from Bradley, head leaning lazily against the tinted glass.
For once, even he said nothing.
And in the depths of Bradley's mind—where hope had long since died—a single thought echoed, soft but relentless:
I want to disappear.