when debil woke up, he wasn't sure which was worse the hangover or the existence.
his mouth tasted like expired electricity, his heartbeat sounded like it had opinions, and his first thought was, please tell me i didn't text my ex while philosophically hallucinating.
he checked his phone. no signal. no reality either.
the apartment looked… different. not wrong, just interpreted.
the refrigerator hummed a tune that translated roughly to "don't take me for granted," the curtains breathed with a slow melancholy, and the clock on the wall wasn't ticking forward anymore it was healing.
literally.
its cracked glass was sealing itself, slowly, the way time "heals wounds." the idiom had become an organism.
"oh," debil muttered, "so that's how it starts."
he stumbled into the kitchen, feeling the quiet pulse of metaphor all around him. every thought now carried gravity. the knife on the counter whispered, cut ties, the window promised, a way out. his reflection in the glass didn't mimic him perfectly it smirked when he didn't.
"you look worse than yesterday," said a voice behind him.
cendy malckhome leaned against the wall, holding a mug of steaming… something. it looked like coffee, smelled like nostalgia. she wore the same oversized coat, but today it shimmered faintly, covered in words that appeared and faded bits of sentences he'd once said in anger or regret.
"i didn't invite you in," debil said, rubbing his temple.
"you don't have to. i'm technically already in your head."
she sipped. "also, i make better coffee than your subconscious. you're welcome."
he squinted. "you're really here again?"
"until you die or get bored of me, whichever comes first."
"probably the second one," he said, but he smiled despite himself.
she grinned. "you say that now, but give it time."
debil sat down at the table, watching the light bend through the kitchen window. dust motes floated like tiny metaphors looking for meaning. every object seemed loaded with significance too much significance, as if reality had decided subtlety was overrated.
"so…" he began slowly. "if metaphors are real now, what exactly does that mean?"
cendy twirled her spoon in the coffee, and the liquid formed a spiral galaxy of brown and gold.
"it means language isn't descriptive anymore. it's performative. when you think 'i'm drowning in thoughts,' your brain doesn't filter it as poetic exaggeration. it interprets it as physics. if you're not careful, you'll need a lifeguard made of reason."
"so basically my brain's been hacked by my own imagination."
"exactly. congratulations you've turned symbolism into software."
he groaned. "great. i always wanted to be an unstable metaphor."
she smiled sweetly. "you already were, you just didn't notice."
they sat in silence for a while. outside, the city seemed normal, but only from a distance like a memory pretending to be current. cars passed, but their wheels didn't spin; instead, the road flowed beneath them, carrying them forward because time moves on.
even gravity felt emotional. it wasn't pulling it was holding.
"do people here exist?" debil asked.
"depends what you mean by 'people.' everything here is built from associations your brain once made. some of them look like humans, but they're fragments metaphoric stand-ins for concepts you've embodied before. emotions, regrets, archetypes."
he frowned. "so no real humans?"
"no real difference," she said quietly. "here, everything you've ever believed acts like a citizen."
he laughed under his breath. "so i'm basically god in a linguistic simulation?"
"more like the mayor of your own delusions," cendy said. "but sure, aim high."
he chuckled a low, cracked sound that felt almost alive.
the humor was keeping him sane, like duct tape holding together a collapsing philosophy.
but then he noticed something strange: on his arm, where the hospital IV mark had been, a faint light was pulsing beneath the skin not painful, not bright, just… symbolic.
"uh, cendy?"
"yeah?"
"what does it mean when my veins start glowing?"
she peered over his shoulder. "ah, that. probably your belief system trying to update your biology. you said something last night about wanting to 'see meaning flow through you,' remember?"
he blinked. "you mean—"
"yep. your subconscious took it literally. congrats, you're now a walking metaphor for spiritual enlightenment. or radiation poisoning. unclear which."
he laughed despite the unease. "this place really punishes exaggeration."
"and rewards honesty," she added.
"then i'll say this honestly i'm terrified."
the air shifted.
the room dimmed, as though the word terrified had materialized as atmosphere. a dark wind stirred the curtains. the clock stopped healing and began bleeding time again, the second hand dripping seconds onto the floor like liquid mercury.
cendy placed a hand on his shoulder. her touch was warm, grounding, human.
"fear's fine," she said softly. "you just can't live in it. here, emotions are architecture. if you stay afraid too long, the walls will close in. literally."
"so what do i do?"
"you narrate differently."
he frowned. "narrate?"
"say it again," she said, "but choose your words carefully. here, syntax is survival."
he took a breath, trembling slightly. "i'm not terrified," he said. "i'm… awake."
instantly, the darkness faded. the clock resumed ticking, the walls expanded with relief, and light filled the corners again.
he stared in disbelief. "did i just reprogram reality with a sentence?"
"you've always done that," cendy said. "you just never saw it happen in real-time."
they both fell silent again. somewhere outside, thunder muttered like an unfinished thought.
debil leaned back in his chair, staring at his hands, the faint glow in his veins pulsing with the rhythm of possibility.
"so i have eight days left?" he asked finally.
"nine," cendy corrected. "you're still technically on day two."
he nodded. "then what's the goal?"
"to learn the difference between what you mean and what you say," she said. "and maybe, if you're lucky, to say goodbye properly."
he smiled faintly. "you're really death, aren't you?"
she looked away. "only the polite version."
he didn't press further. instead, he stood up, walked to the window, and looked out at the city the way its lights pulsed with metaphorical logic. somewhere, a neon sign flickered the phrase time flies — and a swarm of clock-winged birds took off into the evening sky.
he laughed again, not because it was funny, but because it was exactly absurd enough to be true.
"cendy," he said quietly, "i think i get it now."
"get what?"
"that i'm not dying of cancer."
she tilted her head. "then of what?"
he smiled sadly. "of language."
and for a moment, she didn't joke back.
she just nodded slow, knowing, like a friend who'd already seen the ending.
the room fell quiet again, except for the sound of meaning rearranging itself in the air, soft as breathing.
and outside, somewhere between metaphor and memory, the city whispered its reply:
welcome to day two.