Day 10.7: Shit. Shit. Shit


    I don’t move.


    The world around me doesn’t move either.


    The junkyard sits in heavy silence, the rusted cars pressing in like watchers in the dark. The air is thick, unmoving, pressing against my skin like something alive. The wind sighs through the wreckage, but even that feels wrong, like a whisper meant to cover up something else. Something waiting.


    Bits of trash skitter across the gravel, catching on jagged metal, but nothing else stirs. No footsteps. No breath but my own. No movement.


    But I know what I saw.


    The dead thing in the dirt—it twitched.


    I freeze. Every muscle in my body goes tight, like if I move, even an inch, it’ll see me. My lungs burn as I hold my breath, waiting, listening. The junkyard is too quiet, the air too thick. My skin prickles, my stomach twists.


    I keep my eyes locked on it. My grip on the crowbar tightens until my fingers ache. My heart slams against my ribs, wild and uneven. I don’t blink. I don’t dare.


    I wait. My ears strain for any sound, any shift, any scrape of movement.


    The body stays still.


    The skin is gray, stretched tight over sharp bones, lips curled back in a frozen snarl. Its limbs are twisted, one arm bent wrong where I crushed it, where I made sure it wouldn’t move again. The wound on its head is dark, split open, caked with dried blood. A jagged piece of metal juts from its side, half-buried in the dirt like a marker for the dead.


    But I saw it. I know I did. A twitch, a flicker, something just barely there. Or maybe it was everything else—the way the air felt heavy, the way my own heartbeat seemed too loud, the way my skin crawled with the certainty of being watched.


    I swallow hard, my throat dry, my breath sharp in my ears. My mind races. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe my brain is still playing tricks on me, refusing to accept the quiet. Maybe I’m so used to running, to fighting, that I can’t understand stillness anymore.


    I force myself to take a step back. The gravel shifts under my boot, too loud in the dead air. The sound makes my stomach twist. I keep my eyes locked on the body, waiting for the slightest movement, a sign that I need to run.


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    Nothing.


    I take another step. My breath shudders out, uneven, cold. My muscles scream at me to move faster, to stop wasting time. Every second stretches too long, the air pressing in heavier, thicker. My pulse thumps in my ears, too loud, like it''s trying to warn me of something I can''t see.


    Still nothing.


    I take another step. My foot scuffs against gravel, the sound like a gunshot in the silence. My stomach clenches. I wait for something to shift, something to move, something to lunge from the shadows.


    Still nothing.


    The stillness is worse. It feels wrong, unnatural, like the world is holding its breath alongside me. Like something is waiting, just out of sight, just beyond what I can hear or feel or understand.


    I exhale, slow and careful, forcing my breath steady even as my limbs tremble. I can’t waste more time. I need to move. I need to find gas. I need to focus.


    But as I turn, I feel it again.


    A shift in the air. Like a door opening in a house you thought was empty. A weight behind me, pressing, creeping, slithering up my spine like cold fingers trailing over skin. My heartbeat stutters, my breath catches, my limbs lock.


    Not sound, not sight—just something there. Something close. Watching.


    I want to turn fast, to swing, to make sure nothing is behind me. But fast is loud. Fast is stupid. Instead, I grip the crowbar tighter, my palms slick, my knuckles aching from the force. I take one step. Slow. Then another.


    The feeling doesn’t fade. It stays, heavy, suffocating, waiting.


    It’s just my mind.


    It has to be.


    I twist my grip on the crowbar, forcing myself to keep moving. One step. Then another. I don’t look back. I won’t.


    But I hear something.


    A breath.


    Not mine.


    A faint, rattling inhale, wet and shallow, like air struggling through ruined lungs. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, my skin prickling with a deep, primal terror. My grip tightens, my palms slick with sweat.


    I spin—crowbar raised, ready to swing—


    Nothing.


    Just the same wrecked cars. The same empty dirt. The same body, still twisted and unmoving. The wind kicks up dust, swirling it around my feet, but nothing else stirs.


    My breath is too loud. My pulse too fast. The silence stretches, thick and unnatural.


    But I swear—I heard it.


    Just the same wrecked cars. The same empty dirt. The same body, still twisted and unmoving. The same dead world pressing in around me.


    But the feeling still remains, cold and sharp, sinking into my skin, coiling in my gut like a sickness I can’t shake.


    Something is wrong here.


    I grip the crowbar tighter, jaw clenched. My eyes dart across the junkyard, searching for movement, waiting for something—anything—to prove I’m not losing my mind. Every shadow feels deeper. Every space between cars seems darker. The silence isn’t empty anymore; it’s full of waiting, stretching, pulling, like the world itself is holding its breath with me.


    I swallow hard, throat dry. I don’t move. I don’t blink. My skin prickles with something crawling, unseen, something that doesn’t touch me but somehow feels too close.


    Nothing.


    Just silence.


    Just stillness. But not dead. Not empty.


    Just me.


    …Right??