Fractured Mind

Ethan Davis was always in control. At 35, he was a successful architect, known for his precision and meticulous designs. He lived in a modern apartment with clean lines and minimalistic décor—everything in its perfect place, just like his life. But lately, something was wrong. Strange things were happening, things he couldn’t explain.

It started subtly—a misplaced coffee cup, a door left open. Minor annoyances, really, easily dismissed. But soon, it became undeniable. One evening, Ethan returned home to find his meticulously organized bookshelf rearranged, the books haphazardly stacked. He stared at them, trying to recall if he had done it absentmindedly. Maybe he had been stressed, working too late on his latest project. Yes, that was it—stress.

But the unease lingered, gnawing at him like a persistent itch. His apartment no longer felt like the sanctuary it once was. At night, he would lie awake, listening to the creaks of the floor, the rustle of the curtains, and the faint murmur of voices that seemed to come from the walls.

One night, Ethan awoke suddenly. His phone was ringing, but the screen was dark. Confused, he picked it up, expecting it to stop. Instead, a voice crackled through the speaker. It was his own.

"You can’t run from me."

He dropped the phone, his heart racing. It had to be a prank—a glitch, maybe. But the voice sounded too familiar, too real. Ethan spent the next day distracted, jumping at every sound, every movement in the corner of his eye. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.

As the days passed, the incidents escalated. His reflection in the mirror seemed delayed, a fraction of a second slower than his movements. He would catch glimpses of a shadow behind him, but when he turned, there was nothing there. His coworkers noticed his increasing paranoia. "You need a break," they said. "You’re overworked."

Ethan knew they were right, but something was wrong. His mind felt fractured, like there were pieces missing, and he couldn’t figure out where they had gone. One evening, while reviewing blueprints at his desk, he found a note in his own handwriting: **Stop looking for the truth. You won’t like what you find.**

His pulse quickened as he scanned the room, but it was empty. He hadn't written that. Or had he? His grip on reality was slipping, and Ethan couldn’t tell what was real anymore. He decided to visit a therapist, Dr. Winters, hoping she could help him make sense of his spiraling thoughts.

Dr. Winters was calm, methodical, asking questions about his childhood, his work, his relationships. Ethan told her everything—about the phone calls, the shifting reflections, the whispers in his apartment. She listened carefully, nodding at all the right moments.

"Have you considered the possibility that you might be suppressing something?" she asked gently.

Suppressing what? Ethan hadn’t had any major trauma—no tragic loss, no hidden past. He was just... him. But her question lingered in his mind, gnawing at him. Maybe she was right. Maybe he wasn’t as in control as he thought.

That night, Ethan sat at his desk, staring at the blueprints for a new building. The lines blurred together, and the whispers started again. But this time, they were louder.

"Remember," the voice hissed.

He stood up abruptly, knocking over his chair. He had to get out. He had to escape whatever was happening to him. But as he reached for the door, it wouldn’t open. Panic surged through him. He pulled harder, but it was stuck, like something—or someone—was holding it shut.

"Remember," the voice echoed in his mind, clearer now, more demanding.

And then it hit him. Memories he had long buried came flooding back—his mother, her fragile mind, the day she locked herself in the bathroom, rambling about things that weren’t real. The day she disappeared.

Ethan froze. His hands trembled as he remembered finding the letter—the one she had left behind. "It’s not safe in my head anymore," she had written. "I’m not alone in here."

He hadn’t thought about that in years, had pushed it deep down, refusing to acknowledge the fear that he might have inherited more from her than he cared to admit. But now, the pieces were falling into place.

Suddenly, his reflection in the window shifted. The figure staring back at him wasn’t just a reflection. It was **him**, but different—twisted, smiling in a way that sent a chill down his spine. The figure raised a hand and waved, its eyes filled with malice.

"You can’t escape me," it whispered, lips moving in sync with his own.

Ethan backed away, heart pounding. His mind had fractured, split into two. The voice wasn’t something external—it was him, or rather, a part of him that he had locked away, just like his mother.

But now, it was free.

As the reflection grinned wider, Ethan realized with terrifying clarity: he couldn’t trust his own mind. He had become the very thing he feared—the thing his mother had warned him about. And there was no escape.

The whispers grew louder, echoing in every corner of his apartment, his mind unraveling as the reflection stepped out of the glass.

And then, everything went dark.