Blurred I

The grains in the air, appearing to vibrate like TV static, were the only proof this place was real. I couldn’t trust my mind anymore. Not since the sirens started—low at first, like a distant hum, then deafening, ripping through my thoughts. I tried to run, but the ground crumbled beneath my boots, the earth itself splitting in jagged breaths. Every corner I turned felt like a loop, the same shattered glass crunching beneath me, the same warped shadows bending unnaturally against the flickering light. There was a rhythm to it, though, like a heartbeat stitched into the chaos. I could feel it building, pressing into my chest, drowning me. Then I saw her—standing still amid the wreckage, head tilted as if she could hear something I couldn’t. Her eyes glinted like they’d seen this all before. She raised a hand and whispered, "You hear it too, don’t you?" And I did. It was music. Dissonant, broken, pulling everything around me apart. Or maybe it was putting me back together.