Hurt

The wind howled through the decaying mansion, its walls stained with the passage of time. Thomas sat in the dimly lit parlor, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows on the cracked wallpaper. His eyes were hollow, reflecting a soul tormented by memories he could not escape.

Thomas had once been a renowned physician, a man of prestige and power. But now, he was a ghost, haunting his own life, trapped in a prison of guilt and sorrow. The mansion, his empire of dirt, was all that remained of his once grand existence. Each room held a piece of his shattered past, and he wandered through them like a wraith, unable to find solace.

Tonight, he sat with a small box in his lap. Inside, a syringe glinted under the candlelight. The needle was old, its sharp edge a familiar sting he both dreaded and craved. He rolled up his sleeve, exposing his scarred arm, and injected the substance with practiced ease. The pain was sharp, immediate, a reminder that he was still alive, still human.

As the drug coursed through his veins, memories surged, unbidden and relentless. Faces of those he had lost paraded before him—his wife, their child, friends who had turned their backs as his life unraveled. He had driven them all away, consumed by his own demons, leaving him alone in the end.

The mansion creaked and groaned, as if sharing in his torment. Thomas staggered to his feet, swaying as the drug took hold. He moved through the parlor and into the hallway, each step heavy with the weight of his regrets. The walls seemed to close in around him, the darkness pressing against his mind.

He entered the study, where dust-covered books lined the shelves. His eyes fell upon a photograph on the desk—a younger version of himself, smiling with his family. He picked it up, staring at the faces that had once meant everything to him. Now, they were ghosts, lost to time and his own failings.

A chill ran down his spine as he sensed a presence behind him. He turned slowly, the shadows shifting to reveal a figure standing in the doorway. It was his wife, or rather, what was left of her. Her eyes were empty, her form translucent, a specter of the woman she had once been.

“Why did you leave us?” her voice echoed, a whisper of pain and accusation.

Thomas fell to his knees, the photograph slipping from his grasp. “I tried to save you,” he sobbed. “I tried to make it right.”

Her ghostly form moved closer, her touch cold as death. “You could have saved us, but you chose your own path. Now, you are cursed to live with your choices.”

The room seemed to darken further, the air thick with despair. Thomas felt the weight of his sins crushing him, each breath a struggle. He had built his life on lies and broken promises, and now he wore his guilt like a crown of thorns.

The figure of his wife began to fade, leaving him alone once more. He crawled to the fireplace, where a low fire still burned. He reached out, his hand trembling, and touched the flames. The heat seared his skin, but he welcomed the pain. It was real, a tangible connection to the world he had lost.

“If I could start again,” he whispered to the empty room, “I would find a way to keep you all with me.”

But it was too late. The mansion, his prison, echoed with the sounds of his suffering. Thomas lay on the cold floor, tears streaming down his face, knowing that he would never escape the torment of his own making. In the end, he had let them all down, and the pain was all that remained.