I Only Wake Up After It’s Over
Most mornings start with a headache and a question I never want the answer to.
Not “what time is it?” or “do I have work today?”
But—
What did he do this time?
The light hits wrong through the curtains. Too sharp, too loud. My mouth’s dry, and my body aches in places that feel earned but unremembered. There’s always some clue. A footprint in my own blood. A bruise I don’t recall earning. A faint scent I can’t identify—perfume, sweat, fear.
Today, it’s a stain on the wall near the door. Smudged. Almost wiped clean. Almost.
My keys are on the kitchen counter, not in the bowl where I always leave them. That’s another tell. He doesn’t care where things go. He’s messy. Disrespectful. He doesn’t treat this body like it’s borrowed. He treats it like it’s his.
And maybe it is.
We don’t talk. Not really. But he makes himself known.
Sometimes in bruises. Sometimes in photos I didn’t take. Once, a bite mark on my thigh. Too sharp to be mine. Too deep to forget.
He doesn’t have a name. I don’t give him that power. But he calls himself things.
I’m the real you. I’m the part you’re too scared to be. I’m what you were born for.
I used to fight him. Thought I could lock him out if I tried hard enough—meds, therapy, routines. Nothing worked. He’s the tide. I’m the shoreline. All I can do is hold my breath when the water comes.
I’m 26.
People say I look older.
I feel ancient.
I don’t leave my apartment unless I have to. I live on microwave food and bottled water because I’m afraid of what I might say to a cashier. What I might become if she smiles too long. I know how fragile the line is now.
He’s always waiting.
The Stranger.
The version of me that doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t apologize.
I used to keep a journal. Tried tracking when he comes out. What triggers him. I thought maybe I could predict it. Like weather patterns.
Turns out it’s not storms that wake him.
It’s need.
Mine.
There’s a closet in my apartment I never open anymore.
I locked it one night after waking up to find clothes that weren’t mine folded neatly inside. Women’s. Expensive. Some stained.
There was a phone in there too. Not mine. Different brand. Dead battery. I haven’t charged it. I won’t.
I told myself if I leave it all there, untouched, it’s not real.
It’s not evidence.
It’s just… leftovers.
Work is the only place that makes me feel invisible, and that’s a good thing.
I sit in the back of the IT office where no one goes unless something’s broken. I wear headphones even when I’m not listening to anything, just so people won’t try to talk to me.
They call me Ellis.
Or “hey, can you look at this?”
I like Ellis. He’s small. Safe. Forgettable. He doesn’t scare people. He doesn’t touch.
At night, I try to stay awake. Fight the blackouts. Keep the lights on. Keep moving. Read old books. Scroll forums. Watch boring documentaries at max volume.
But sleep always wins.
And when it does, so does he.
Last night, I had a dream.
I think it was a dream.
There was a girl.
I couldn’t see her face, just her hands. Pale. Delicate. Pressed against my chest. Pushing me away? Or pulling me closer?
I heard her whisper something, but I don’t remember the words. Just the feeling they left behind.
Cold.
When I woke up, my shirt was gone and the window was open.
There were scratches on the inside of my arms.
Deep enough to sting in the shower. Not deep enough to justify calling anyone.
Who would I call?
“Hi, I think my other self might’ve hurt someone again, but I can’t prove it, and anyway I don’t want to know.”
They’d institutionalize me.
Maybe they should.
The worst part isn’t that he exists.
It’s that I need him to.
Without him, I’m nothing.
No voice. No life. No one.
He gets things.
He gets people.
He takes.
He lives.
I just hide.
Until it’s over.
