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He doesn’t remember waking up.
That’s not all that strange, really. A lot of his days tend to flow together in a way that makes it hard to differentiate them. He has work to do—he rolls out of bed, snags his laptop off of his desk.
He can’t remember what he was doing last, but he’ll figure it out. If he’s not timely with his tasks, his supervisor likes to make his very existence more difficult.
The carpeted stairs feel ratty beneath his feet—Reggie likes to tear at it, and Mom doesn’t come down often enough to get upset about it. It’s ugly, anyway. One day he’ll scrounge up some cash to replace the whole thing.
He slides his hand up the banister, minding the splinters… no, that’s not right. This one is metal. It won’t splinter. It’s the upstairs he’s thinking of.
There’s a chair pulled out at the dining table, a covered bowl on the placemat. One of the others has gone unused for years. He still looks at it. Still remembers. He was much smaller back then.
A sliver of darkness peeks out from behind the curtains. In the distance he can pick out the faint red glow of the drifting mines. Clustered around other sections of the facility.
He can’t remember eating, but the dish before him is empty, and his mother’s hands are cold as she takes it from him. Her lips are cold when she kisses his forehead. She feels more distant than before, and he can’t quite figure why.
“You’re pale, mijo,” she says, tucking strands of hair behind his ear. “Are you coming down with something?”
There’s no breath in his lungs, and so he doesn’t answer.
When she turns away, her face slips out of his mind. And still there is work to be done.
He stands. Wanders down the hallway. His footsteps echo strangely, a cadence that doesn’t match the shape and size of his shoes. But he counts the doors until he reaches the bathroom and squints against the fluorescent lights.
It’s always too bright in here. And yet it’s only a problem for him.
The tile floor meanders between grimy and spotless, and he takes the time to make sure he’s alone before he steps into the shower. It’s cold on his back, but the sensation is muted. Tired.
He looks into the mirror and the walls are a warm yellow, but the one that stretches out behind his reflection is pale. Washed in blue, a place he still can’t escape.
Sebastian stares back at him.
It is a face he no longer recognizes.
The stranger in the mirror reaches out, his nails like claws as they dig into the frame. Glass fractures, but he can’t move, watching that person he used to know drag himself through a window to another life.
Sebastian’s still wearing that uniform he died in.
He’s wearing a jacket that no longer fits.
Heavy boots squeak on the sink, and the porcelain begins to crumble, but he can do nothing but watch as Sebastian finds his footing, and launches himself forward.
His head slams into the tile, and he can’t think. He should be worse than this. He should be worse. He should be able to throw off this attacker like all of the others, else what was all of that blood for? The stains under his nails he swears he still feels?
And yet.
Cold hands fit around his neck. Calloused and scarred and pressing harsh against his gills.
Sebastian stares him dead in the face and squeezes as he takes in the features he can’t quite remember anymore. It should feel like looking in a mirror. It should.
It doesn’t.
“You’re not me,” Sebastian growls, and it’s a devastated sound. It’s desperation, and it’s disbelief, and he can’t help but agree. Somewhere in the hollow space where his heart used to beat.
He can’t answer. There is no breath in his lungs. He’s been drowning for a long time, and this is much the same.
“You’ll never be me. You can’t.”
He knows himself. He knows what he was, back then. He knows especially now, looking into the face of a dead boy. He stares up at a ghost, peers deep into his eyes, and all he can see is fear.
His vision darkens. Sebastian shakes, blunt nails pressing into his skin, as if he can tear out the parts they share.
“You stole my future.” The words are choked.
“Give it back.”
His stomach roils.
Sebastian throws himself to the side, leaning over the edge of the mattress as he heaves. There’s a twist in his gut and it feels like he can’t get his breath, something digging fiery claws into his abdomen.
A puddle of sick splatters on the hardwood floor. He can’t do much but stare at it for a few moments. There’s a part of him that desperately craves a gentle hand to hold his hair out of his face. To peel back sweat-soaked strands and place a cool hand against his forehead.
The idea of fingers on his skin only makes him feel more ill.
Sebastian crawls out of bed, carefully avoiding the traces of watery vomit as he tries to remember how to move his own body. For a moment, he thought he knew what it was to have feet. That halfway-there memory trips him up on the way to the bathroom.
The bedroom smells like eucalyptus under the acid stench, and he opens a window once the floor is clean.
His head swims.
He stops in the kitchen. Throws out the soiled paper towels. Grabs himself a glass of water. And then he returns to the bathroom to stare into the mirror.
The face that stares back at him is almost a comfort.
He’s glad it’s the one he’s gotten used to. That everything hasn’t changed all over again, that he won’t have to get used to a body that no longer belongs to him.
It aches deep in his chest.
Sebastian washes his face, brushes his teeth. Then he looks at himself in the mirror again.
He braids his hair with slow, uncertain movements. It’s messy, will probably fall out by morning. But… it’s different than the face he’s used to. A slight change from the one he’s spent years hating.
Maybe he’ll let it grow out.
He casts one last look at the person in the mirror. Then, Sebastian goes back to bed.
It’s going to be an long day.