For Me, For Us, For Everyone
Cigarette smoke curls in the stagnant air, the dim glow of a dying bulb casting twisted shadows against the walls littered with half-torn articles and red-thread connections. Somewhere between the ink-stained papers and the scattered pills, a man sits—silent, unmoving, staring blankly at a stuffed monkey in a clown suit.
A detective, they call him. A man of justice, a solver of mysteries. But behind the applause and empty praises, behind the sharp smiles and hollow congratulations, he is nothing but a walking contradiction—one hand holding a case file, the other exchanging cash for little plastic sachets.
His mind is a labyrinth of voices, whispers that coil around his thoughts like suffocating vines. His brother grins at him from the corners of his vision, eyes glinting with the truth he refuses to face. His father’s voice is gentle, forgiving—too forgiving. Too much for a man who doesn’t deserve it.
Each pill swallowed is another step into the illusion, another moment of stolen happiness before the weight of reality drags him under. He walks the city streets, drowning in faces that admire him, loathe him, see him as something he is not. He is both a hero and a villain, a detective and a criminal, a man trying to outrun the past while shackled to its corpse.
And at the end of the night, when the echoes of the world fall away, all that remains is the darkness, the whispers, and the suffocating truth—he can never escape them.
