Trudy

I am not supposed to be awake yet.

That’s what I think first, before I understand anything else. My eyes are open, but the room feels wrong—too still, like someone paused it mid-breath. The ceiling fan isn’t moving. The light coming through the window doesn’t shift when I blink. Dust hangs in the air like it forgot how to fall.

I try to sit up.

Nothing happens.

Not pain. Not resistance. Just… nothing. Like my body missed a memo.

I laugh a little, because that’s what you do when something doesn’t make sense and you’re trying to be normal about it. My laugh doesn’t sound right either. It doesn’t echo. It doesn’t even feel like it comes from me.

“Rick?” I say.

My voice lands somewhere in the room, but it doesn’t bounce back.

Rick should be here. He always is when something’s wrong. Even when it’s not. He has that way of hovering like he’s waiting for a quiz he didn’t study for. Big brother energy, Mom calls it, like that explains anything.

I swing my legs off the bed.

I think I do.

The floor is cold, but I don’t feel it the way I expect to. More like I remember cold than actually touching it. I look down and see my feet, pale against the carpet, toes curled slightly inward like they always are.

Everything looks correct.

That’s the problem.

The house is quiet in a way it never is. No TV noise from the living room. No dishes. No parents pretending not to argue. The air smells clean, like after rain, even though it hasn’t rained.

I walk to the hallway.

I don’t hear my footsteps.

That bothers me more than it should.

Rick’s door is open. Of course it is. He never closes it all the way, like he’s afraid of locking himself into something. His room looks exactly the same: books stacked too neatly to be accidental, posters slightly crooked because he refuses to rehang them, desk light on even though no one’s there.

I step inside.

“Rick,” I say again.

Nothing.

I go to his desk and touch the edge. My hand passes through it.

Not fast. Not dramatically.

Just… through.

I stare at my fingers like they’ve betrayed me.

This is a dream, I decide. That’s the logical explanation. The kind where everything feels hyper-real because your brain is showing off. I’ve had dreams like that before—ones where you know something’s off but you can’t wake up because your mind is too busy proving a point.

So I do what you’re supposed to do in dreams.

I look for something emotional.

Something sharp.

I think of Rick crying in the bathroom when he thought no one could hear him. I think of Mom’s face when she gets that tight smile she uses instead of yelling. I think of the night everything went wrong—

The memory stops.

Not fades. Stops. Like a tape cut mid-word.

That’s new.

I try again.

I remember the heat first. Summer pressing in through the walls, sticking to everything. Cicadas screaming outside like the world was overheating. Rick and me arguing about something stupid—I don’t remember what, just that it felt important.

Then nothing.

My chest tightens, but the feeling doesn’t go anywhere. It just… exists. Suspended.

I don’t like that.

I leave his room and walk down the hall. The bathroom mirror catches my reflection, and I pause. I look normal. A little pale maybe. Hair messy the way it always is when I sleep. Same old T-shirt with the faded graphic Rick hates because he says it’s ironic in the wrong way.

I lean closer to the mirror.

My breath doesn’t fog it.

I pull back fast, heart racing out of habit more than necessity.

“Okay,” I say out loud. “Okay.”

If this is a dream, it’s a bad one. If it’s not—

I don’t finish that thought.

I go downstairs.

The living room is empty, but the couch cushions are indented like someone just stood up. The TV is off, but I can feel it humming, like it remembers being on. The front door is closed, sunlight pooling beneath it in a way that feels staged.

I touch the door handle.

Nothing.

Not locked. Not warm. Just… irrelevant.

That’s when I notice the sound.

At first, I think it’s ringing in my ears. A low, distant hum, like when a power line vibrates in the heat. It doesn’t come from anywhere specific. It’s just there, threaded through the quiet.

It feels like being watched by something that doesn’t blink.

I don’t like it.

I back away from the door and sit on the stairs, hugging my knees. This is usually where Rick sits when he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s upset but also doesn’t want to be alone. The thought makes something twist in me—not pain, exactly, but pressure. Like a question without an answer.

“Rick,” I whisper.

This time, something shifts.

Not in the room.

In me.

Images surface—not memories, exactly. More like impressions. Rick older. Rick tired. Rick standing in places I don’t recognize, talking to people whose faces blur when I try to focus. He looks heavier somehow, like gravity decided to take a personal interest in him.

I don’t understand how I know this.

I just do.

The hum grows louder, more insistent. It doesn’t sound angry. It sounds patient.

Waiting.

“Stop,” I say, not sure who I’m talking to.

The images fade, but the feeling stays.

That’s when I realize something else.

I haven’t felt hungry.

Or tired.

Or sore.

I don’t feel my heartbeat unless I think about it.

I stand up slowly and walk back upstairs, back to my room. The bed is still there, covers slightly rumpled like I left them. I sit on the edge and press my hands into the mattress.

They sink in.

I don’t.

I stare at the spot where my hands should be leaving impressions.

They don’t.

The hum stops.

The silence after it is worse.

A memory finally breaks through—not all at once, but in fragments. A flash of light. Someone shouting my name. Rick’s voice cracking in a way I’ve never heard before. The smell of hot metal and summer air.

I gasp.

This time, I feel it.

Not in my lungs.

In my understanding.

“No,” I say.

The word echoes—not in the room, but inside me. I shake my head hard, like I can dislodge the thought if I move enough.

“I’m here,” I argue. “I’m thinking. I’m—”

I stop.

Because I realize what I haven’t done since waking up.

I haven’t breathed.

Not once.

The house feels farther away now, like I’m looking at it through glass. The edges blur. The light bends wrong. The mirror in the hallway no longer reflects me when I glance at it.

The hum returns—not as sound, but as awareness.

Something knows I understand now.

Something has been using the shape of my thoughts, the outline of my memories, like a mold.

I don’t fight it.

I focus instead on Rick.

On the way he used to count my breaths when I was scared. On how he always thought it was his job to stand between me and whatever hurt. On how he never learned that some things don’t need guarding.

They need letting go.

“I’m okay,” I say, even though no one can hear me.

And then, finally, completely, undeniably—

I remember dying.