He woke from his first night to a body that was no longer small.
He was taller. He was heavier. No longer a helpless infant.
Confused and disoriented, he stumbled into the bathroom and lifted his eyes to the mirror.
The face staring back at him was unfamiliar ,grown, suspended somewhere between boy and man. A faint moustache traced his upper lip, undeveloped but unmistakably there. Dark circles sank beneath his eyes, just as they always had, carved by years of sleepless nights and relentless nightmares.
His gaze drifted upward to his hair. It was a tangled mess, crushed by sleep, yet thick and lush all the same. Straight strands that had only recently begun to curl at the ends framed his face. He had always blamed that damned pillow he could never get used to.
Then his eyes traveled downward.
Disgust twisted his expression.
He hated what he saw , hated it with a familiar, burning intensity he hadn't missed for a second.
An obese young man stood reflected in the clear bathroom mirror.
His stomach lurched. He barely had time to lean forward before vomiting into the sink.
The room spun. He clutched the porcelain edge, mumbling curses under his breath, words spilling out in a broken, frantic rhythm. When he forced himself to look again, something inside him snapped.
He swung.
His fist collided with the mirror at the center of his reflection, shattering it into a thousand jagged pieces.
Blood streamed from his knuckles as he clenched his fists and began pounding his head, screaming.
"No—no, no, no, no. This is a prank. Yeah. Yes. This is just a prank."
He struck himself again.
"No, this can't be real. No. No. This is a dream. I'll wake up. I'll be back to normal. Yes. That's it."
Laughter burst from his throat.. wild, broken, unhinged as he tried to rationalize the horror staring back at him.
"Yes… this must be a dream. I just have to die. Then I'll wake up."
He reached down and picked up a shard of broken glass, lifting it until it hovered at his throat.
Just as he was about to press it in, the bathroom door flew open.
A middle-aged woman stood there around forty, with tired eyes and dirty-blonde hair.
"Ilion?" she called out. "What's going on? Why are you screaming so early in the morning?"
Her words died in her throat when she saw him.
The glass.The blood.
She rushed forward.
"Stop! What are you doing?! Put that down!"
She grabbed the shard from his hand just in time. It sliced into her palm, drawing blood, but she didn't let go.
"My boy," she whispered, her voice trembling with fear and pain, "why would you ever think of doing something like that?"
Blood dripped from her hand as tears welled in her eyes. She pulled him into a tight, desperate embrace.
"Oh, my sweet boy… who hurt you? Why would you even consider this?"
He stood frozen in her arms, his body stiff, his mind unraveling.
The only word he could manage to speak was:
"Mum."
And then the world went black as he collapsed into the merciful embrace of unconsciousness.