Jack's eyes snapped open, but the world around him offered no comfort. A suffocating weight pressed against his chest, a thick, heavy pressure that refused to release. His breath came in ragged gasps, shallow and frantic. His hands—small, fragile—scrambled for a grip on the confines of the wooden walls. The air felt thick and stale, suffocating. His skin prickled with the desperate sensation of being trapped, as if the very earth was closing in on him, swallowing him whole.
He didn't know where he was, or who he was anymore. Everything was a blur, fragmented like shattered glass, each shard sharp and jagged. A cold sweat dampened his brow, his head spinning with panic. His limbs felt weak, his body foreign. No, this was wrong. He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to feel this. Fear. Anxiety. The frantic clawing at his throat as his body screamed for air—this wasn't him.
But it was.
His eyes darted around the small, suffocating space. The wood of the coffin scraped against his hands as he struck it again, harder this time, his small fist pounding the walls with wild desperation. He could feel it—his heartbeat thudding against his ribs, the panic rising in his chest, clawing at him from the inside. He wanted out. He needed to escape. He pounded harder, but the coffin only mocked him, unyielding. His breath quickened, a staccato rhythm, each inhale a battle.
Screaming, his voice raw and broken. But no one would hear. His cries were drowned by the weight of the earth above him. Alone. Trapped. Helpless.
The tight space pressed against him from every direction. His chest felt too tight to breathe. His limbs had no room to stretch. Each breath felt like it might be his last. His mind spiraled into a panic that threatened to consume him. What was happening? Why couldn't he move? Why couldn't he escape? His head spun, his vision narrowing to the walls of his prison, the wood beneath his trembling fingertips, the suffocating darkness above.
And then, hours—or maybe days—passed. The darkness was an endless void. He lost track of time, unable to distinguish between moments of agony and the cruel silence that followed. His body grew weaker, the pounding in his chest slower, until it all faded into nothingness.
When Jack's eyes opened again, there was a rush of coldness, of dread. His chest constricted as the urgency flooded back, raw and feral. The anxiety gripped him with the force of a hurricane. He was suffocating again, the panic twisting in his gut. His small hands slammed against the wood, his breath ragged and choked. He had to get out. Had to move.
The knocking came then—faint at first, a whisper against the dirt. The sound echoed in his skull, a strange, unfamiliar rhythm. His breath hitched. Someone was out there. His heart raced, his thoughts fragmented as the real world outside felt distant, muffled like a dream slipping away from him. He knocked harder. A deep desperation filled him, every fiber of his being screaming to be freed.
He listened. The knocking was still there. It was not his own. He could hear it now, echoing in the dirt.
The grave shifted above him, and Jack froze. His fingers gripped the edge of the coffin lid, a fragile thing, trembling under the weight of what he didn't yet understand.
And then—crack. The sound of metal against stone.
A gasp. A voice, trembling with disbelief. "What in the world…?"
The earth began to shift, dirt falling in small clumps as the gravedigger—Bob—began to unearth the coffin. Jack's pulse hammered against his skull, but he didn't care. He only cared about getting out, about breaking free from this nightmare.
As the dirt began to fall away, Jack's breath caught in his throat. His fingers trembled as they curled into fists. He was going to get out. He had to. This was the moment, the only chance. The lid of the coffin lifted, creaking in protest. He surged upward, bursting from the darkness, choking on the damp air as he scrambled to his feet, desperate and disoriented.
The world hit him in a rush—bright, cold, and alive.
He blinked against the sudden light, his vision swimming. There, standing above him, was Bob. His wide eyes were filled with disbelief, his mouth open in shock. Jack barely registered the man's words, the horror in his voice.
"You—you were dead," Bob whispered, kneeling in the dirt, his hands shaking.
Jack's mind reeled. The words didn't make sense, not in the chaos of this moment. But something inside him clicked. The confusion, the panic, the foreignness of it all—it all came together, like pieces of a broken puzzle fitting together, slowly, painfully.
He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to be a child.
The weight of the realization hit him like a hammer. The body he inhabited—this fragile, small, weak thing—wasn't his. He had no control over it, no ownership of it. No control.
Bob's voice brought him back, "You came back to life. A miracle… a miracle…" His voice trailed off, uncertainty creeping into his tone.
Jack's gaze fixed on the man, cold and distant. The strange sensation of being alive—of breathing, of feeling—was unfamiliar, unnerving. He didn't belong here. He couldn't belong here.
A sharp, splintered plank of wood lay discarded beside him. Jack's fingers closed around it instinctively. His grip tightened, the rough edges of the wood biting into his palm. His muscles tensed, the dark thoughts rising in his chest. This wasn't a miracle. It was a curse.
Bob's eyes widened in fear. "W-What are you—?"
Before the gravedigger could finish his sentence, Jack moved. A vicious swing of the plank, sharp and unforgiving, and then the sickening crack of skull against wood.
Bob's body crumpled, lifeless, like a doll thrown aside.
Jack stood over him, breath coming slow and steady now. His gaze didn't waver from the man he'd just killed. It wasn't a thought; it was an instinct. The plank still gripped tightly in his hands, Jack's body shook—not from fear, but from something deeper, something that was slowly unfurling inside him.
The boy—no, Jack—looked at his small hands, feeling the weight of the action sink in. He'd killed before, but this body, this innocent shell… it didn't feel like it belonged to him. His eyes flickered to Bob's body, the pool of blood spreading like a dark stain on the dirt.
No remorse. No guilt. Just a stillness, an emptiness, creeping in where emotion should be.
But there was no time to dwell. He had a new reality to navigate. A new path to carve. And for Jack, there would be no mercy.
The gravedigger lay in the dirt, and Jack stood alone, unblinking, beneath the cold, unforgiving sky. His chest rose and fell with the breath of someone who didn't yet know what he had become.
Jack stepped away from the grave, his small legs carrying him to the nearby shack. He didn't know where he was going, but his feet moved on their own, the rhythm almost mechanical. His mind was foggy, disoriented, too many questions pressing against his skull.
When he entered the small, decrepit house, the smell of dust and rot hung in the air, thick and oppressive. The room was dim, barely any light seeping through the grimy windows. His eyes immediately darted to the mirror hanging crookedly on the wall.
He approached it slowly, almost hesitantly. His reflection caught him off guard. The small face that stared back at him was pale, unblemished, with wide, innocent eyes. A child. A boy. No, this wasn't right. It couldn't be. He wasn't supposed to be here. His hands reached up, brushing his face, feeling the soft skin of a child that didn't belong to him.
The confusion crashed into him again. He stood frozen, staring at the reflection that felt foreign, wrong.
This is me now. But it's not me.
His heart pounded, the weight of his situation settling over him like a stone. A part of him—the real him—wasn't here. It was something else that had taken over. The body, the face, the feelings—it was all wrong. But it didn't matter. This was where he was now.
Jack turned away from the mirror, his gaze hardening. Whatever happened to him, whatever force had trapped him in this body, he would find out. And he would make them pay.
The body may have changed, but Jack—Jack—was still in control.