The end of my life comes wrapped with a red bow. I know what waits for me inside, but I can’t stop myself.
My hand touches my forehead and pulls away, slicked with blood. But this time I don’t die. Instead I am shredded into a million pieces and blown somewhere, and I am actually feeling this pain of being pulled apart even though I am dreaming.
My alarm goes off, and the first thing I think is I didn’t set my alarm last night. I was hoping I would skip first period and the science test I didn’t study for.
The second thing I think is Why am I moving?
My arm is pulling my cover to the side. My legs are swinging off my bed. I try to wrinkle my eyebrows in confusion, but I can’t. I am walking downstairs. Step-step-step. I can’t slow down or stop or turn myself around. I don’t know what’s going on. I know it’s impossible to be stuck in your own body.
When I reach the kitchen I say, “Good morning.” The words slide out of my mouth, calm and bored and comfortable, the opposite of what I’m feeling. My parents are sitting at the breakfast table like they completely forgot what happened yesterday.
I see my older brother Calloway out of the corner of my eye because I can’t turn my head. He’s not supposed to be here.
For some reason the panic doesn’t show through my eyes. I feel like my chest should be pounding, my head shaking no, but they don’t. No one thinks anything is wrong.
I find myself sitting at the table and reaching for cereal. I try to shift my hand or tense my muscle but I can’t. My brain is disconnected from my body.
My mom spills her orange juice, which lands on her white blouse, and suddenly everything makes no sense and a whole lot of sense at the same time.
This happened yesterday. She wore that yesterday for the millionth job interview she had.  Calloway is yelling about his missing phone. He did that yesterday. I finished the cereal yesterday, but the box is on the table. Yesterday is today.
What happened yesterday or today was something I couldn’t change. So why am I reliving it? Why can’t I move how I want to? I want to take deep breaths, but my lungs are breathing at their own pace. And I can’t feel myself pour the milk, but it falls into the bowl. I am completely numb. It’s as if I am watching and hearing my life from behind a glass window.
If this doesn’t stop, in the next fifteen hours, I will go to school. I will come home, smiling, and see my mom, crying. I will break my brother’s heart.