Cut

I woke to a presence at the foot of my bed.
A shape, warped and wretched, goblin-small,
with skin like old parchment, creased and torn.
Its fingers, long and restless, crept through my world,
prying open drawers, unspooling my secrets,
spilling my life into the dark.

A thief of cloth and trinkets, of order itself,
blind to my huffed protests, deaf to my rage.
Its hands danced through my belongings,
sorting, discarding, choosing.

Drawers gaped, their bellies gutted,
shadows spilled where my things had been.
The air smelled hollow, like something taken.

I reached too close,
a flash of jagged teeth, a sharp bloom of pain.
A bite, but no wound, no blood.
Only a creeping numbness, slow as winter,
spreading, patient, waiting.

Had I imagined it?

The candle at my bedside flickered,
wax pooling like a wound in the dark.
The walls sighed, collapsed, gave way to something vast
no longer my room, but a ledge in endless black.

I stood, or thought I did.
A tether ran through me, unseen hands pulling me forward.
A thread sewn through my ribs,
tightening with each step.
I looked back but there was no back.
Forward was all.

Terror filled my lungs.

I followed the string.
One path became two, then four, then many.
A thousand forks, a thousand futures,
woven in delicate chaos.

And at the heart of the tangle, the goblin returned.
Still ignorant to me, still intent on its work,
snipping strands with careful hands,
choosing my path,
choosing for me.

The sheared threads curled and withered,
lifelines severed with a flick of the wrist.
What had I lost? What had I been?
Where had I once walked,
before the path was altered?

I sank into myself, knowing what must be done.
Again, I lunged and again, the bite.
But this time, the creature startled,
a flash of panic in its milky eyes.

A sharp bone slipped from its grasp,
clicking against the empty ground.
I took it, my fingers curling around its edge.
A crude knife, an old thing, older than me.

The world unraveled.

Falling, falling…
I crashed into morning.

Warm light spilled through the window,
dust floating, birds singing,
as if nothing had changed.
As if the night had never come.

But something pressed against my leg.

I reached into my pocket,
and there it was. Cold, sharp, real.
The bone.