“He Moves While You Can’t”

You wake up—

but nothing else does.

The room holds its breath.

The air goes stale.

Time… forgets how to move.

And then—

He’s already there.

Not arriving.

Not entering.

Just… there.

Standing in the corner like he grew out of the dark itself.

Head tilted.

Too far.

Too wrong.

Watching.

Always watching.

He doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t breathe.

But he smiles—

Like he remembers something

you’ve been trying to bury.

Slowly…

He lifts his hand.

Skin cracked—

charred black at the fingertips,

like fire never let go of him.

He drags those fingers along the wall—

And the sound—

Not scratching.

No…

It’s softer.

Like burnt skin peeling off paint.

Step.

He moves closer.

Step.

Closer.

Each footfall doesn’t echo—

it sinks.

Like the floor is swallowing him

but never fast enough.

Now he’s at the edge of the bed.

He doesn’t rush.

He never rushes.

Because he knows—

You’re not going anywhere.

He climbs onto the mattress—

Not like a person.

Limbs bending wrong,

knees digging in too sharp,

like something learning how to crawl

inside a human shape.

The bed doesn’t creak.

It just… dips.

Like something heavier than a body

just settled on top of you.

And then—

He presses down.

Not hard at first.

Just enough to remind your chest

who’s in control of the air now.

His head lowers—

Closer…

Closer…

Until his face is right there.

Burned.

Split.

Smiling through damage

that should have killed him twice.

And then he begins.

Fingernails first—

Dragging slow across your arms—

Not cutting yet.

Just tracing.

Mapping.

Like he’s revisiting familiar territory.

Then—

He presses in.

And the skin gives way.

Not fast.

Never fast.

He watches it happen—

Watches the line open

like he’s admiring his work.

Then another.

And another.

Each one careful.

Precise.

Like he’s rewriting something

he already wrote before.

He tilts his head again—

Listening—

Not to your voice…

But to the absence of it.

That’s his favorite part.

The way your mouth opens—

wide—

desperate—

And nothing comes out.

He laughs—

But there’s no sound.

Just a shaking in his shoulders,

a silent joy

that fills the room thicker than air.

Then the fire—

It doesn’t start big.

It starts in his hands.

A glow beneath the cracked skin—

Then heat.

Then flame.

And he presses it into you.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Holding it there—

Watching the skin blister,

watching it split,

watching it remember.

Because that’s what he wants.

Not pain—

Memory.

He leans in close—

Forehead nearly touching yours—

And he just… watches.

Watches the tears.

Watches the shaking.

Watches the silence scream.

And he keeps going.

Cut.

Burn.

Cut.

Burn.

Over.

And over.

And over.

Like a ritual

he refuses to finish.

Because if it ends—

You might wake up.

So he doesn’t let it end.

He just keeps moving.

Keeps carving.

Keeps pressing fire into skin

that can’t escape.

Keeps smiling

like this is the only place

he’s ever truly alive.

And when your eyes finally snap open—

Gasping—

air rushing back like a flood—

The room is empty.

Still.

Quiet.

Untouched.

But the mattress…

It’s still slightly pressed in.

Like something heavy

just climbed off.