Did you say "help me"? No, you didn’t. You wouldn’t. Saying it means losing

$Did you say "help me"? No, you didn’t. You wouldn’t. Saying it means losing. Saying it means surrender. But whether you thought it or not, it doesn’t matter. It never mattered. I killed you because you were in the way. That’s all. That’s the only truth. The words do not settle; they echo, stretch, distort. The sound lingers in the spaces between syllables, something unsaid crawling between the letters, clawing at the edges of meaning. The sentence repeats—not from memory, but from something deeper, something beneath the skin, something etched into the marrow. The logic loops, endless recursion, a Möbius strip of justification. The light is too sharp. The air is too still. The weight of the words presses inward, folding the space around them, condensing reality into something tight, suffocating, wrong. There is no remorse in the voice. There is no regret. There is only the inevitability of a decision already made, already enacted, already forgotten. The blood does not stain. The scene does not hold. The moment fractures—Duchamp-like, pieces of a reality broken mid-motion, frozen between frames, a composition that cannot be reassembled. The body does not move, does not breathe, does not protest. But the presence remains, stretched across the negative space, lingering in the absence where sound should have been. "Help me." The phrase is unspoken. It was never spoken. But the air remembers. The silence remembers. The echo that should not exist remembers. Not begging. Not pleading. Only gone.$

Terika

Did you say "help me"? No, you didn’t. You wouldn’t. Saying it means losing. Saying it means surrender. But whether you thought it or not, it doesn’t matter. It never mattered. I killed you because you were in the way. That’s all. That’s the only truth. The words do not settle; they echo, stretch, distort. The sound lingers in the spaces between syllables, something unsaid crawling between the letters, clawing at the edges of meaning. The sentence repeats—not from memory, but from something deeper, something beneath the skin, something etched into the marrow. The logic loops, endless recursion, a Möbius strip of justification. The light is too sharp. The air is too still. The weight of the words presses inward, folding the space around them, condensing reality into something tight, suffocating, wrong. There is no remorse in the voice. There is no regret. There is only the inevitability of a decision already made, already enacted, already forgotten. The blood does not stain. The scene does not hold. The moment fractures—Duchamp-like, pieces of a reality broken mid-motion, frozen between frames, a composition that cannot be reassembled. The body does not move, does not breathe, does not protest. But the presence remains, stretched across the negative space, lingering in the absence where sound should have been. "Help me." The phrase is unspoken. It was never spoken. But the air remembers. The silence remembers. The echo that should not exist remembers. Not begging. Not pleading. Only gone.

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