I couldn't figure out the reason as to why I was in my baby brother's body and not in my own, and I couldn't do anything while in the body of a toddler. What was the point of getting a second chance if it meant being trapped—helpless?
I kept trying to move, but nothing was working. My limbs wouldn't respond. I was doomed to watch my father lose his sense of self and kill m…
Wait.
If I'm in this body… who's in mine?
A cold dread sank into me like a stone dropping in deep water. It was pointless to even ask questions—I couldn't know the answer. I was hopeless. And this after being given a second chance.
Why me? Why this?
Wait… this whole time, I've yet to ask why I wasn't in my body. So why? Why a different body? Why a toddler who can't walk, can't speak, can't scream? And what can I even do with what I was given?
I tried again to stand, my legs shaking beneath me like wet noodles. Wobbling, I used the side of the crib for balance and peered over the edge. All I could see were toys—stuffed animals, plastic cars, some old books with chewed corners. Nothing that helped. Nothing that answered anything.
I dropped back down into the crib, exhausted already. Maybe I should just wait until my mother or siblings got home. Maybe they could help. But… if I remembered right, around this time, I should've been getting home—from my graduation.
A lump formed in my throat. That day… I'd been walking home. Smiling. Tired, but proud. And then…
I was right.
The front door unlocked. Opened. Closed.
I froze.
I cried out—louder than before—forcing my lungs to strain. If anyone was downstairs, they'd have to hear me. Maybe I could stop it. Maybe this time would be different.
Then I heard it—footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Climbing the stairs.
My heart pounded.
It was happening.
And then—there I was.
Standing in the doorway.
Same shirt. Same shoes. Same haircut. Same haunted expression I'd seen in the mirror so many times.
It was me. My body. My face.
He looked tired. Hollow. Like he'd already seen too much. His eyes flicked around the room, then landed on me, crying in the crib.
He walked toward me—hesitant at first, then quicker—and picked me up without a word. It was strange being held by myself. Stranger still that I knew what he was thinking. I knew exactly what kind of day he'd had.
From over his shoulder, I saw something move in the hallway. A flicker of darkness. A shape.
And I remembered.
No one else was supposed to be home.
No one… except for him.
My father.
I opened my mouth, trying to scream. But nothing came out—just desperate wails. I flailed in my other self's arms, trying to make him see.
"Come on, man," I thought. "Look closer. Say something. Don't put me down."
But he didn't say a word.
He laid me down in the crib.
And then—
BANG.
The gunshot tore through the house.
And I saw it.
I watched myself get shot. My body jolted—arms flailing, eyes wide in shock. I dropped instantly, crumpling to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. Blood spilled fast, darkening the carpet beneath me. My own face—blank, open-mouthed, staring at nothing.
I couldn't breathe.
I stumbled backward inside the crib, gripping the bars, heart racing so fast it hurt.
Then—footsteps again.
Each one louder. Closer. Measured and slow, like they knew I had nowhere to go.
The door creaked open again.
And there he was.
My father.
His face—twisted into a wide, unnatural grin. His hands were soaked in blood. His shirt, his arms—everything was stained.
He stepped inside like he owned the moment.
I tried to crawl, to slide away from him, but my legs wouldn't cooperate. I was too small, too weak.
He reached in and picked me up by the head, his grip rough and wrong and inhuman.
He tilted me up to his face and stared at me.
"Who are you?" he asked.
His voice was cold. Too calm.
My eyes widened. He knew. He knew I wasn't his son.
I wanted to scream, to tell him I was me, but the words wouldn't come. My mouth opened and closed like I was choking on air.
He raised the gun and pointed it at my face.
Tears streamed down my cheeks. I struggled, twisting in his grip. His hands were slippery—slick with blood—and I slipped free, falling back into the crib with a soft thud.
I hit the mattress and gasped.
But I had no time to recover.
His smile widened as he leaned over me, casting a shadow that swallowed the room.
"You won't make me go back there, I was so bored for so many years, decades, millennias" he said.
Go back where? I wanted to scream. What are you talking about?
But something about the way he said it made my blood run cold.
He raised the gun again.
I shook my head. I couldn't say anything. Couldn't reason with him. All I could do was look into his eyes—the eyes of a man I used to love. A man who now looked like a stranger.
"Please…" I whispered, though I wasn't sure the sound even left my lips.
He stared at me.
And then—he swung.
The blow hit me like lightning. My head snapped back. The pain was instant, flashing white and red behind my eyes. My whole body went limp. I couldn't move. I couldn't think.
He pointed the gun at me again.
And without hesitation—
He pulled the trigger.