You wanted to skip school that morning, hoping for an easy yes, so you quietly walked down the hallway and pushed open your mother’s bedroom door. The room was dim and still, the curtains barely letting in the early light. She lay asleep on her bed, motionless, her breathing slow and steady. A pillow rested awkwardly against her legs, as if she had shifted in her sleep and never moved again.

Unsure whether to wake her, you carefully climbed onto the edge of the mattress and moved closer, whispering her name. When she didn’t respond, you gently shook her shoulder. Nothing. No groan, no stir—just an unsettling stillness that made your stomach tighten.

As you leaned back, something caught your eye. Along the center of her back was a narrow slit, clean and precise, as though it had been placed there intentionally. You hesitated, then leaned closer. The opening wasn’t bleeding, nor did it look like a wound. Instead, the skin parted slightly, revealing an interior that was completely hollow.

Inside, the surface looked smooth and organic, faintly glossy, as if it were meant to stretch rather than tear. Heat radiated subtly from within, not painful, but undeniably alive. It didn’t feel like looking inside a body—it felt like discovering something that was never human to begin with.