Mistake

Saint Icarus is different at night.

Noise of the day fades into a stillness that almost feels deliberate — as the entire campus rested. The courtyardlights cast golden halos onto the cobblestones, their soft glow bending around every curve and corner with care.

Leaves dance quietly across the path, brushing against each other like they were afraid to be heard. In the distancethe wind moves lazily through the hedges, brushing past leaves like it has nowhere to be. Somewhere, a windowhums — faintly, like it might sigh.

The air is cool, easy. It settles into my collar without making a scene. Even the old stone buildings look softer atnight — not warm, just less sharp.

Everything’s still. Held in place.

Then a figure turns the corner up ahead.

She moves quietly, but not cautiously — like the path belongs to her. Her hair catches the lamplight as she passesbeneath it, the strands glowing pale gold for just a second before vanishing into shadow again.

Emily.

I don’t need to see her face. There’s a way she walks — not rushed, not slow — just like she’s always a few stepsahead of wherever she’s going. It was her.

“Emily,” I called out.

No reply.

I take a step forward, my shoes tapping the stone. “I want to ask something.”

Her figure keeps moving, crossing into the edge of the next hallway. No hesitation. No glance back.

“Please.”

Still nothing.

I move faster now, but the shadows along the walls stretch longer. The golden light grows dimmer. The trees rustlelouder — too loud.

She turns another corner and disappears.

I turn the corner that she vanished behind — but the hallway is empty.

Just empty.

I move faster, feet striking stone a little too loud. The arches give way to the back steps of the Arts building, andfrom there, I see it: the café.

I stop.

There are too many bad memories tied to this place. I don’t want to go in. I want to turn back — escape whatever’scalling me. But I can’t.

My feet have grown a mind of their own, like they don’t need me anymore.

They drag me toward that haunted place.

The doors are already wide open.

And the moment I step inside, they shut behind me.

Inside, the café is just an endless dark abyss. 

No students. No voices.

The place is dark — utterly and unnaturally dark — except for two faint lights. One glows above the cash register,and the other — the other hangs over a table near the center of the café.

I can’t see much — just the shape of a chair pulled out, and something sitting on the tabletop. Red. Rectangular.

Almost too familiar.

I walk toward it. Slowly.

The silence presses tighter the closer I get. Even my footsteps feel muffled now, like the air itself doesn’t want meto interrupt.

The book’s cover catches the light. Soft leather. Frayed corner. A bit of tape on the spine from when it tore twoyears ago.

My journal.

My breath stutters. I haven’t seen this in months. It disappeared after—

The pages turn.

On their own.

Just one.

Then another.

Like fingers I can’t see are thumbing through it gently.

Then it stops.

A single page rests open under the light.

Five words. Written in black, inked deep into the paper like they’re carved instead of penned.

THEY SHOULD HAVE LET ME DIE.

One moment I’m staring at those dreadful words I wrote with my own hands — the next, I’m staring at him.

A man standing across from me, perfectly still — like he’s been there long before I notice.

At first glance, he looks like a man. But there’s something wrong — not with how he moves, but with how thespace around him feels. Like the room is trying to stay away from him. I can see his shape, but not what’s inside it.Every time I try to focus, my vision blurs — like I’m not supposed to see him clearly. His face is there, butimpossible to make out. The longer I try to look, the more it slips — a dream already slipping through my hands.

He isn’t made of shadow — he casts no shadow.
There is no darkness in him.
Not like any human.

He is the darkness.

He’s the monster they tell bedtime stories about.

Behind him, just slightly to the left, stands a child. Ten, maybe.

Small frame. Brown skin. Soft, rounded features. His hair is curled and short, carefully kept like someone elsecombed it. His eyes are wide — not with wonder, but with quiet, heavy fear. The kind that doesn’t know what it’safraid of yet. 

His shirt is slightly too big, collar twisted, one button undone. And for some reason I can’t explain, something inmy chest tightens.

He looks like someone I used to know.
Like a memory I buried. A memory I need to uncover but I can’t. Something is stopping me. The boy is oddlyfamiliar and yet a stranger to me. 

The man doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His hand reaches back, calm as anything, and rests on the child’sshoulder. The boy flinches.

I try to say something. Anything. But no sound comes out. My throat tightens, locked. The air in my lungs staysright where it is — frozen.

The man moves again.

His fingers slide forward — not to hold the child, not to comfort him — but to grip the skin of his face. His upperlip.

I want to scream.

He pulls.

Slow. Controlled.

His fingers press into the boy’s mouth — two at the lip, one beneath the jaw — and then he grips, deep. The skinstretches unnaturally, rubber-like at first, then thinner, tighter, until it gives.

I hear nothing — but I can see everything.

The top of the child’s face peels upward, the skin folding back like paper soaked in glue. Thin layers pull apart,revealing raw muscle, slick and twitching. His gums stretch, teeth exposed to the root. A fragment of bone glintsunder the light, pale and dry.

The boy’s eyes go wide. His scream rips through the room like it’s tearing the walls with it.

It isn’t just a sound. It’s violence.

And then it clicks. The boy isn’t familiar because I know him or I have met him. I am the boy — I was. 

I stumble back upon this realisation. The room twists. The tiles shimmer like heat rising from asphalt. My kneeshit the ground. My hands reach for something — anything — but the table’s already gone.

The scream keeps going. Too loud. Too close.

And then—

I jolt awake.

Sheets cling to my skin, damp with sweat. My chest rises — fast, panicked — but I’m breathing. I’m awake.

Thank God.

I stare at the ceiling, blinking, trying to let my body catch up with the fact that it’s over.

But then I try to move.

And nothing happens.

My arms won’t lift. My legs are lead. My mouth is sealed shut. I’m frozen — not out of fear, not anymore. Just…stuck.

Like my body hasn’t realized the dream is over.

Panic flickers behind my eyes. My gaze darts left, right, desperate for something — anything — to ground me. Butthe room stays still. Too still.

Moonlight spills in through the window but doesn’t move. It settles on the far wall like it's afraid to come an closer.

Shadows cling to the corners, thick and unmoving. My skin starts to buzz — a low, electric hum just beneath thesurface, like my nerves are short-circuiting under the weight of everything I can’t do.

I try again to scream. To whisper. To blink harder. Nothing.

The worst part is, I don’t know if I’m still dreaming.
Or if this is real.

Either way, I can’t move.
And something in the room feels like it's waiting for that.

I hear slow, deliberate steps moving toward my face. Closer. Heavier.

It’s him.

The same man.

I recognize him by his eyes — pale, like frosted glass. Not blind. Just blank. Empty. Like something is behindthem,watching through a mask that barely fits the shape of a person.

He moves over me, crawling up like smoke with bones. And the worst part is, I can’t even lift a hand to stop him.

Then he whispers:

“She’s going to leave you. It’s always about him. Tell me, when was the last time she asked anything about you?”

I stay silent.

Not because I want to — but because I can’t. This whole thing, this thing on top of me, has stolen every last shred of my ability to speak.

“She will leave. And you know the fun part?” he hisses. “You won’t get any second chances like him. Becausehe’s special. And you? You’re nobody.”

He’s getting through. I can feel it — like acid on my ribs.

He knows me.

Or maybe I’m just replaying something I already have seen unfolding with these eyes — something I thought I’dburied. But it keeps surfacing. Over and over.

“You haven’t forgotten me, right?”

He’s on top of me now. Close enough for me to see his face clearly — too clearly.

I don’t want to.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to cut off every glimpse of him.

“Oh, don’t do that,” he breathes. “I’m all you’ve got. I’ll be the only friend you’ll ever have.”

I turn to my right, still lying on the bed — eyes shut, heart pounding, hands pressed over my ears — a fragileattempt to block it all out.

“She said it herself — you know? You do remember, right?”

I’m not looking at him, but I can feel him smiling. Like he has me right where he wants me.

And he does.

I remember it. I remember exactly what she said. How it became my fixation for six months. How—

How it broke me completely.

How it gave birth to a parasite.

“I wanted to be his friend, but I got you — and that’s life.”

He mimics her perfectly. Her voice. Her words.

I clench my fists tighter. My hands shake. My brain starts racing again. The same overwhelming feeling returns.

I can move again. The paralysis is over.

But I don’t want to get up.

There’s no point.

I let it take over — the dread, the memory, the weight of the past. I always do. I always let it consume me in theend.

Tears slide down my face.

I curl into a ball, hoping maybe — just maybe — it’ll help.

“The friendship with Emily was a mistake, John. Just like…”

I know what’s coming.
I know exactly what this parasite is going to say next.

I shouldn’t hear it. I don’t want to.

I want to beg someone — anyone.

God.

God can help me.

Please, God. Turn my brain off.
Just for a second.

Please.
Please.

My hands press harder over my ears, knuckles white.
I bite down on my tongue, hard — like pain might shut it out.
My body shakes. I want to disappear. Crawl out of my skin and never come back.

“You. You are a mistake.”

I flinch.

“You were born one.”

My breath catches. My chest spasms.

“And you will always be… one big mistake.”

The words don’t echo — they settle.

Like dirt on a coffin.