Replica

I wake up to the sound of construction outside. The noise drilling into my skull, as if taunting me with the events from that night. Opening my eyes, I am greeted by an impersonal room. Almost clinical. "Meta Fight Disaster Relief Resources" they call it. Appartments given to the victim of metahumans in case they lost it. That's the least they can do with pushing meta into their Hero or Metapol programs...

Every day since Mel disappeared has been a struggle. My mornings are filled with a hollow routine—wake up, eat, try to find something to occupy my time. Despite Paul's offer to continue working as usual at the shop, I can't work now; the fear of another fight between metahumans keeps me from leaving for too long the house. I can't even walk down the street without flinching at every loud noise, every shadow that moves too quickly.

The nights are worse. That's when the visions come, vivid and relentless. I relive the moment of awakening my power over and over again. The sight of Robert’s lifeless body, a hole in his torso bleeding, mirrors my own terror and confusion. The feeling of that ethereal string pulling, the way my wound vanished—it haunts me. I keep thinking, why me? Why did I survive when so many others- When Mel didn't?

When my brain isn't occupied by some magazine I get sent or other, it turns back to my visions. The large writhing mass of tentacles and eyes from before my awakening... It's terifying, whenever I think of it, it feels like it looks at me. And then, the vision of my rotting body comes instead.

I feel like vomitting whenever that happens, but as if my "fixed" body was something alien, nothing ever actually comes out. Not even bile.

My days have been continuing like this in a blur. I don't know how long for sure, what I do know is that the sound of the construction works are slowly reducing. I know I'll need to move out of this place soon, and will need money to get a place to stay at...

As the sun sets, the sound of the worker's cries now vanished, the city outside my window erupts into chaos. The familiar sounds of battle fill the air—explosions, screams, the shattering of glass. I can feel the tremors through the floor, and my heart races. I force myself to breathe, but it’s no use. The panic grips me, tight and unyielding.

"Not again," I whisper to the empty room. My mind flashes back to that night, the last night I saw Mel. I can still hear her voice, her laughter, the way she clung to me when the building started to collapse. The fear in her eyes as we tried to escape. The desperate hope that we might make it out alive, only to be crushed by the reality of our fate.

I get out of bed and move to the window, looking out at the distant flashes of light and smoke. Gravitas and Ms. Kai, or maybe some other Meta are tearing through the city once more. Their battles are a spectacle for some, but for me, it’s a nightmare. I see people running, trying to find shelter, their lives upended by powers they can't comprehend or control.

I wrap my arms around myself, trying to find some semblance of comfort. It’s a futile effort. The apartment is cold and unfeeling, much like the world outside. I think about the visions, the grotesque scenes of my own death and decay, and wonder if this is all some twisted joke. What’s the point of surviving if this is all that’s left?

In the kitchen, I reach for a glass of water, hoping it will calm the storm inside me. But my hands betray me, trembling uncontrollably, the water splashing onto the cold, lifeless countertop. The noise outside is deafening—explosions, the roar of battle between metahumans. My grip weakens further, and the glass slips from my hand, shattering on the floor just like my composure.

My legs buckle, and I slide down the counter, landing hard on the floor, my back pressed against the cold, unforgiving wood. I try to breathe, but each breath is a ragged, shuddering gasp. My chest tightens as if an invisible hand is squeezing the life out of me. Tears spill down my cheeks, hot and unrelenting, carving wet paths down to my chin. The world outside seems to fade, the sounds of destruction becoming distant echoes. All that’s left is the sound of my own sobs, loud and desperate, filling the empty apartment.

And then, as if my mind wants to punish me further, the images begin to flood in. They start gently, almost sweetly—Mel’s smile, radiant and warm, the way she always looked at me with those bright, loving eyes. I see us on our first date, the way she laughed when I awkwardly spilled wine on my dress, the way we walked hand in hand through the park, talking about everything and nothing.

But then, like a cruel twist of fate, the images shift. The brightness of Mel’s smile dims, the corners of her mouth dripping with blood. Her eyes, once full of life, cloud over with fear and pain. I see her lying on the ground, her body broken and lifeless amidst a landscape of debris and fire. The park where we walked hand in hand is now a wasteland, trees scorched and blackened, the air thick with smoke.

The visions won’t stop. I’m pulled back to the day we moved in together, carrying boxes up the stairs, laughing as we argued over where to put the couch. But the laughter quickly turns to screams in my mind. The walls of our home crack and crumble, the floor gives way beneath us, and I watch in helpless horror as Mel falls into the abyss below, her hands reaching out for mine, but I’m too far, too slow. The ground swallows her up, and all that’s left is the echo of her scream, reverberating in my mind.

In the kitchen, I reach for a glass of water, hoping it will calm the storm inside me. But my hands betray me, trembling uncontrollably, the water splashing onto the cold, lifeless countertop. The noise outside is deafening—explosions, the roar of battle between metahumans. My grip weakens further, and the glass slips from my hand, shattering on the floor just like my composure.

My legs buckle, and I slide down the counter, landing hard on the floor, my back pressed against the cold, unforgiving wood. I try to breathe, but each breath is a ragged, shuddering gasp. My chest tightens as if an invisible hand is squeezing the life out of me. Tears spill down my cheeks, hot and unrelenting, carving wet paths down to my chin. The world outside seems to fade, the sounds of destruction becoming distant echoes. All that’s left is the sound of my own sobs, loud and desperate, filling the empty apartment.

And then, as if my mind wants to punish me further, the images begin to flood in. They start gently, almost sweetly—Mel’s smile, radiant and warm, the way she always looked at me with those bright, loving eyes. I see us on our first date, the way she laughed when I awkwardly spilled wine on my dress, the way we walked hand in hand through the park, talking about everything and nothing.

But then, like a cruel twist of fate, the images shift. The brightness of Mel’s smile dims, the corners of her mouth dripping with blood. Her eyes, once full of life, cloud over with fear and pain. I see her lying on the ground, her body broken and lifeless amidst a landscape of debris and fire. The park where we walked hand in hand is now a wasteland, trees scorched and blackened, the air thick with smoke.

The visions won’t stop. I’m pulled back to the day we moved in together, carrying boxes up the stairs, laughing as we argued over where to put the couch. But the laughter quickly turns to screams in my mind. The walls of our home crack and crumble, the floor gives way beneath us, and I watch in helpless horror as Mel falls into the abyss below, her hands reaching out for mine, but I’m too far, too slow. The ground swallows her up, and all that’s left is the echo of her scream, reverberating in my mind.

And then there’s the concert, the night everything changed. I see Mel on stage, her silhouette bathed in soft, golden light as she plays her guitar, fingers moving with a grace that seems almost unreal. The music wraps around me, pulling me in, and for a moment, I’m back at the bar, watching her with adoration as I serve drinks to the crowd. She’s beautiful, radiant, the very picture of everything I love. But the vision shifts, warping into a nightmare as blood splatters across the stage. The audience screams, the music distorts into a hellish cacophony, and Mel’s beautiful form is consumed by the flames that erupt around her.

The tears flow faster, my sobs choking me as I try to breathe through the agony. My own subconscious is tormenting me, taking the happiest moments of my life and twisting them into nightmares. Each memory is tainted, stained with blood and death, as if the universe itself is mocking me, asking why I survived when she didn’t.

I curl up on the floor, hugging my knees to my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible, as if I could disappear entirely. The images continue to assault me, a relentless onslaught of grief and guilt. I see our home, the place we were supposed to grow old together, reduced to a pile of rubble. I see Mel, lying among the debris, her body broken and lifeless, the life we were supposed to have together nothing more than dust.

I don’t know how long I lie there, lost in the torment of my mind. The sounds of the fight outside fade into nothingness as the visions take over. I’m trapped in this hell, reliving the worst moments over and over again, the weight of my grief crushing me until I can’t breathe.

I lie on the floor, time slipping by in a haze of pain and exhaustion. My body feels like it’s made of lead, too heavy to move, too tired to care. The tears have dried, leaving my eyes raw and my face streaked with salt. The images have faded into the recesses of my mind, but the emptiness they leave behind is almost worse. It’s a void that threatens to swallow me whole, a darkness that seems impossible to escape.

I try to stand, but my legs are weak, shaky, as if they can’t remember how to hold me up. I grasp the edge of the counter for support, pulling myself to my feet. The room spins slightly, and I have to close my eyes to steady myself. When I finally manage to open them again, the sight of the shattered glass on the floor makes my stomach turn. It’s like looking at the pieces of my own broken life, scattered and beyond repair.

The fight outside has moved on, the noise now distant and muffled. The city will be left with more damage, more lives destroyed, all in the name of justice or whatever excuse the metahumans tell themselves to justify the destruction they cause. But here, in this cold, sterile apartment, none of that matters. The world could burn, and it wouldn’t make a difference to the emptiness I feel inside.

I force myself to start picking up the shards of glass, each piece sharp and jagged, a reflection of the way I feel. I’m careful, not because I’m afraid of getting cut, but because the pain of a physical wound might be a welcome distraction. But I know better than to let myself fall into that trap. Pain doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t bring Mel back, it doesn’t make the visions stop, and it doesn’t fill the void.

Once the glass is cleaned up, I move on autopilot, going through the motions of living because I don’t know what else to do. I make a cup of tea, the warmth of the mug a small comfort against the cold. I sit at the small kitchen table, staring out the window at the city that used to be my home. Now, it’s just a reminder of everything I’ve lost.

The tea grows cold in my hands, untouched. I know I should drink it, that I should try to take care of myself, but the effort seems monumental. I’m so tired, not just physically, but in my soul. Tired of the nightmares, tired of the fear, tired of the memories that refuse to let me go.

A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts, a sharp rap that echoes through the apartment. For a moment, I consider ignoring it, letting whoever it is think I’m not home. But something in me stirs, a tiny flicker of curiosity or maybe hope, and I find myself standing, moving toward the door.

I hesitate before opening the door, a sense of dread creeping up my spine. The knock is unexpected, a sharp intrusion into my isolated world. My hand hovers over the doorknob as a million thoughts race through my mind. Who could it be at this hour? A neighbor? The police? Another Metapol officer, perhaps, with questions about that night?

Taking a deep breath, I open it slowly, cautiously, half-expecting another nightmare to be standing on the other side. But instead, I’m met with the sight of a familiar face—Paul. His expression is one of concern, his eyes soft with pity, and I almost slam the door shut, the sudden surge of emotion too much to handle.

But I don’t. I can’t. He’s the only person who’s tried to reach out, the only person who hasn’t treated me like I’m some kind of ghost or a broken doll. So I let him in, stepping aside to allow him entry into the apartment that has become my prison.

Paul doesn’t say anything at first, just looks around the room, taking in the mess, the emptiness. I can see the sympathy in his eyes, and it makes me want to scream, to tell him that I don’t need his pity. But the words die in my throat, replaced by a wave of overwhelming sadness.

“I was worried about you,” he finally says, his voice gentle. “You haven’t been answering your phone.”

“I’m sorry,” I manage to reply, my voice hoarse from crying. “I just… I couldn’t.”

He nods, as if he understands, though I know he can’t. No one can. “It’s okay,” he says. “I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

Paul's words hang in the air, but they feel distant, almost unreal. I nod, though I’m not sure if I'm really agreeing or just trying to make the silence go away. He moves closer, cautiously, as if I might break if he gets too close. And maybe I will. But he doesn’t touch me. Instead, he stands there, just offering his presence, a quiet reminder that I’m not completely alone.

We sit together in the small living room, the remnants of my breakdown scattered around us like forgotten debris. I can't bring myself to meet his eyes, afraid of what I might see there—pity, sorrow, or maybe even disappointment. Instead, I focus on my hands, fingers tangled together, trying to keep myself grounded.

After a while, Paul speaks, his voice soft and tentative. “I know things have been... hard. And I can't pretend to understand what you're going through, but... you don't have to go through it alone.”

His words stir something inside me, a mixture of gratitude and anger. How can he say that when he doesn’t know the weight of this darkness, the suffocating guilt that wraps itself around my heart? But I swallow the bitterness, because he’s here, and that’s more than I deserve.

“I don’t know how to keep going,” I confess, my voice barely more than a whisper. The admission feels like a betrayal of all the strength I once thought I had, but it’s the truth, and I’m too tired to lie.

Paul looks at me then, really looks at me, and for a moment, the world outside fades away. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now,” he says. “Just take it one day at a time. And if you can’t... then I’ll help you. We’ll figure it out together.”

His words are a lifeline, a small glimmer of hope in the midst of my despair. I don’t know if I can believe in them, if I can trust myself to even try, but I want to. I want to believe that there’s still something left to fight for, something worth living for, even if I can’t see it right now.

Paul stays for a while longer, talking about nothing in particular—how the shop is doing, the latest gossip from the neighborhood. I let his words wash over me, a gentle distraction from the chaos in my mind. For a brief moment, I allow myself to imagine a future, one where the pain isn’t so overwhelming, where the memories of Mel don’t tear me apart every time I close my eyes.

When the shy morning rays already changed into midday light, Paul stood up and approached me with a hug. I didn't move in his embrace, as he bid me farewell. As I watch the door close behind him, I can't help but notice the tether which now links both of us.

A literal lifeline. Moral and Physical.

"One day at a time..."