It is February 6th, 2025—nothing peculiar is happening around this time. The only peculiar thing lately has been the dreams I've had—violent dreams that depict me bleeding out in a snowy field. With Valentine's Day around the corner, it's safe to say love must be in the air, but not for me. I had gotten very close this year, with a girl named... named... I messed that up, and it eats away at me every day—like a parasite that constantly gnaws at my mind and heart, draining the hope I have left.
I feel like I'm starting to understand it—my soul yearns for someone it was once intertwined with, only to be torn apart, so close yet so far. Love, so close yet so far. Happiness, so close yet so far.
After being off my meds for a couple of weeks due to their high price, things have only worsened. I can't go ten minutes without hearing her voice—over and over again. This constant unrequited love has driven me to return to the place where I had my first date. It was the arcade—with this girl. Her name was... for some reason, I can't seem to remember anymore.
It was the end of the workday on an otherwise normal Thursday, around 4:30 p.m. After arriving at the arcade, I saw it—something triggered everything. Her voice grew so loud yet so soft. I saw her everywhere I went—the memories of the smiles and laughs we shared. It was unbearably loud, yet so quiet that I couldn't even process it. I felt warm, cared for, but at the same time, I felt a parasite-like sensation devouring me from the inside out.
I ran. I ran from the arcade where I had once shared some of the best moments of my dull life. When I finally arrived home—sick and exhausted—all I wanted was to lie down. But then I heard it again—another voice, so familiar yet so obscure.
Whose voice was this? Were they real? Were they in my house right now?
I called out, asking who they were. I heard him speak once more, demanding that I give in without hesitation. This voice was unsettling, yet the lingering familiarity continued to dance around my mind.
Then, I heard her again, telling me to grab it—the knife that took something very valuable from me. I listened without resistance, heading straight to the kitchen and quickly grabbing it from the knife rack.
I stared at it for a long time.
This knife... something about it felt familiar.
I've held this knife before. I know that for a fact. Even though I was never the one to cook—and usually stayed away from knives—I had held this one before. But this knife, in my hand, felt calming, and I couldn't explain why.
Then it started again—the loud screams, the soft whispers in my mind.
I clutched the knife tighter and ran. I ran from my home; I couldn't take the noise anymore. But it followed me—I couldn't escape.
The snowy field.
I saw a snowy field. These always calmed me down as a child.
I ran toward it.
And then, suddenly, the voices began to die down.
I heard her again.
I turned back—and there she was.
This time, she was crying.
I stood there, gripping the knife even harder.
She was crying, begging me not to hurt her.
Was this a vision? Or was it a memory?
I couldn't tell.
I stumbled backward, tripping over my own feet again and again. I kept falling until I reached a hill.
I tried running.
But she just kept asking, "Why? Why can't you escape me?"
I tried to run again.
I tripped once more—this time rolling down the hill.
And then, it happened.
Something sharp tore into my chest.
I knew I wouldn't survive much longer.
As I lay bleeding in the snow, I thought of her—the woman I once loved, the one I held so dearly.
And then the memories came flooding back.
I remember now.
The sound of the knife penetrating the flesh of another human; the surreal feeling of forcing the knife in, only to rip it out again—not just anyone, but the women I once cared for and loved with all my heart.
As I stared into the snowy night sky, my eyes grew heavier.
I don't regret what I did.
Because now, we are bound together by the very knife that killed us both—by the same hand.
As I finally start to rest for the last time, my eyelids feel as if they're 100 lbs. I have no regrets. Reminiscing on the dreamlike sensation of the knife—a seesaw plunging into another person—I begin to smile.
Then the strangest thing of all happens. I wake up again, but this time I'm standing with my knife in hand. The iron that was on the wind wasn't mine; it belonged to another—a woman, a beautiful woman. I don't recognize her, yet her beauty still stuns me as I stare down at her lifeless body, covered in blood. I look down at my own hands, also drenched in blood. I start to forget, but the only fragments left in my mind are of my love. I hear her voice one last time—soft, loving, haunting, and commanding me to do it again.