Page 18

E xisting where there was no beginning and no end, really wasn’t existing to begin with, was it?

No room. No time to fall back on, clocks ticking steadily away.

Color. Pressure.

Things that didn’t matter to anyone except Morgan.

First came the red.

Not blood red.

Something deeper. Viscous. The kind of red that lays heavy on the tongue. Coats it. Copper and fire and sugar boiled too long. It stretched behind his eyes, rippling in slow waves that pulsed in time with something he couldn’t feel.

Then came yellow.

Not sunlight. Not warmth.

Warmth was too far removed from him .

Sulfur. Hospital corridors and latex gloves that fit wrong. Too many sleepless nights staring at the stained tile as a first-year. A scream compressed into a lightbulb and shattered.

The sound always came last.

A low, dragging note. Cello bow scraping against bone. A body—too heavy, too rigid—being dragged across the ceiling.

But there was no ceiling. Only empty black above him and below.

An absolute void of nothingness, pressing closer each second he stayed here.

But if there really was no time, then how did he know if it passed or not? Did it halt completely? Stretching and falling into the abyss?

Or did it remain intact despite that?

Nothing remained intact in all of that black. Nothing ever did.

He stepped forward. Maybe. There wasn’t ground beneath him, but he moved all the same. Each movement left a smear of red light behind, like dragging a bleeding hand across glass.

Shapes loomed in the dark. Sometimes faces. Sometimes mouths.

Never whole. Never clear.

A woman with hair soaked in oil, eyes wide and unblinking.

A man with a belt wrapped twice around his throat, smile too serene.

Someone’s fingers—long, thin, still twitching—reaching from alung, dark with cancer.

He didn’t know any of them. Not by name.

The names had dissolved at this point, filed away in parts of his memory he couldn’t touch .

He knew them by number.

They watched him. There was no hate. No accusation.

Only waiting. Like film left out in the darkroom, unfinished.

Then—Lex.

The version of Lex that Morgan could never begin to understand. Always here. Always wrong. Always decaying.

Naked from the waist up, skin bleached too white. Not an ounce of that tan remained.

A brand carved into the center of his chest—old and peeling. A wound pressed through wax paper.

His eyes were gone. Two glistening voids, dripping tears that steamed before they hit the floor.

“You said you wouldn’t,” Not-Lex whispered.

Morgan didn’t respond. He wasn’t supposed to talk.

Language wasn’t real here. Noise and color. The faint stutter of a heart that wasn’t his. That was how it spoke.

“You told me I was strong.”

His voice garbled, warped the inside of Morgan’s skull.

The teeth were gone this time, too.

Every part of this Lex was disappearing when he came back.

He never meant to come back. Dreaded the possibility every time he closed his eyes.

Next time, there would be no Lex.

But, for right now, Morgan was here.

Stuck.

Waiting for his brain to fire off the right neurotransmitter to stop the sleep cycle.

Watching this version of Lex inch closer.

Ankle shattered. Bone protruding from rotting, dead flesh .

No smell. No old-meat blood, no iron coating the back of his throat.

There was never smell.

Lex dragged his ruined leg forward, leaving no trail. Not-Lex never bled.

Morgan’s hands trembled, not enough to count.

He reached out.

If he touched Lex, it would be over. It always ended at that moment.

Not this time.

His fingers grazed the brand.

Lex split open. Clean down the middle. Ribcage pulled apart like a zipper. No organs inside. Just smoke.

Morgan watched the ribs float away. Shredded skin hanging weakly on, waving like the white flag of surrender.

They blinked out of existence.

One. Two. Three.

Twenty-four.

When he looked back down, there was a second Lex.

Throat slashed.

Lids peeled away from the eyes. Too much white next to all that tan.

He mouthed words Morgan couldn’t understand.

A third Lex, almost too far out for Morgan to recognize it was him. A wave of blond hair, his back turned, head tilted up toward the faces in the dark.

Blood soaked into the back of his shirt, right over the spine.

“You can keep the rest,” the third Lex called. “This one’s our favorite. ”

The second Lex reached out, and Morgan jerked back.

But the red was seeping from his own hands now. The wrong kind.

Blood this time.

Nothing remained intact after all of this. Nothing was ever meant to survive.

Morgan stepped forward. Maybe. There wasn’t ground beneath him, but he moved all the same. Each motion left a smear behind. Gone when he turned his head.

No.

No, this wasn’t right.

He’d thought this. This had happened.

All of this had already happened.

Woman.

Man.

Fingers.

And the Not-Lex.

This had already happened.

“Which one of us do you think about more, Morgan?” Not-Lex asked. Sweet and soft, too childish for all the gore.

Morgan opened his mouth—thought against it. He didn’t want to know what would happen if he spoke. Didn’t want to be trapped in this loop for the rest of eternity.

This wasn’t his reality. This wasn’t reality at all.

Finally—blessedly—he heard the ticking.

A clock, somewhere behind his ribs. Loud. Heavy. Real.

Morgan jolted upright in bed.

Breathe.

You remember how to breathe.

He did. Of course he did. He knew the mechanics better than anyone. Inhale through the nose. Air into lungs. Expand the diaphragm. Exhale. Repeat.

Simple. Biological . A function every infant could master within seconds of being born.

His body didn’t listen.

It never had.

Oxygen rushed in too fast. Caught in his throat. Choked him. His spine arched forward as if that would help, a hand pressed against his stomach like he could push the air out through force alone.

The edges of his vision tightened. Then flared.

That one… that one had lasted too long. Longer than any of the others.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, dragging them down his face. Sweat clung to every inch of him. His throat. His back. His chest. The pillow was soaked. Sheets damp beneath him. Shirt stuck to his skin like it had melted there.

He’d have to launder all of it. Strip the bed. Wash it twice.

Lex’s hand landed on his thigh .

The comforter moved—kicked aside too hard—and then Lex’s arms were around his waist, blond head pressed into his collarbone.

“It’s okay,” he mumbled, half-asleep and barely audible. “You’re okay.”

Morgan leaned back against the headboard. Closed his eyes.

He was alright now.

The world was back to the right shape, the right texture.

Smells and sound existed in tandem here. Sweat and detergent. Lemon cleaner from the bathroom. The slow in and out of Lex’s breath against his chest, arms loosening.

The old grandfather clock in the corner of the room read 3:52a.m.

He could go back to sleep for an hour.

One hour.

But every time he shut his eyes, he saw them again. Heard the Not-Lex asking the same question, over and over.

“Which one of us do you think about more, Morgan?”

Morgan didn’t know what that meant. His brain was like two stones hitting together—sparks flying, but never catching. No flame to light the way to the truth.

4:01a.m.

Sleep wasn’t going to happen .

He swung his legs off the mattress slowly, letting his feet press into the carpet. He didn’t stand right away. He waited, like he always did, to make sure his limbs were functioning. Too fast, and he might hit the floor.

“Wait.” Lex grumbled. The sound of his hand patting the sheets got closer and closer until it found Morgan’s back. “Where are you—” He yawned. “Shit. Where are you going?”

Morgan cleared his throat. “Shower. Go back to sleep.”

“I—I’m—” Another yawn. “I’m up. I’m up, I’m up, I’m up.” The last one trailed into a whisper, like Lex was trying to convince himself. “I’m coming too.”

“It’s still early.”

Lex didn’t answer right away. Morgan could hear the duvet shifting again. Then, the unmistakable sound of Lex’s bare feet hitting the floor .

Padding over.

He pulled Morgan up, arms wrapped tight around his middle again.

“Early as fuck,” Lex mumbled into the side of Morgan’s head. “You owe me coffee. So—” A third yawn. “ So much fucking coffee.”

Morgan stayed still.

Only for a moment.

Long enough to remind his brain that this was real. Not the nightmare. This was the reality that he belonged in.

Even if it was darker than those shapeless ceilings and floors in his dream. Even if, sometimes, it made less sense.

Lex was solid against him. Breathing. Heavy-limbed with sleep.

But if this Lex—the real one—died before he did, would there be nothing left inside when Morgan peeled him open?

No lungs. No blood. No internal organs to speak of.

Just smoke.

He didn’t want to think about it.

Didn’t want to entertain the idea one moment longer.