When Fighting Mist
A little tale of shadows
The trail winds upward, veiled in weighty fog, the trees crooked and close now, as if listening. Their limbs claw the sky and each other. Sentinels, no, Judges..
I climb alone. No grace, no poetics—just breath and ache and the sting of sweat in my eyes. The silence is thick. I’ve stopped pretending this is a pilgrimage.
The summit never appears. Just more ascent.
Until…
A figure blocks the path ahead.
His stance is relaxed. My stance breaks.
He steps forward. The fog parts like breath inhaled.
He is me.
But not me. Something leaner. Hungrier. Eyes lit from within, faintly pulsing like embers that refuse to die. A scent of earth and decay.
He grins. I flinch.
“Did you really think you could climb away from me?”
“I wasn’t climbing away.”
“No?” He tilts his head, mocking interest. “Then what was all that therapy, the journaling, the mindfulness? You’ve polished yourself down to a dull, clean version. Do you even recognize yourself anymore?”
“I’m trying to live.”
“You’re trying to bury me.”
The wind catches its breath, a scent of metal and hunger. The forest leans closer.
I square my shoulders. “You are pain. Guilt. Shame. Regret. You are the weight that wants to drag me under. Why would I carry you?”
He laughs. It is not cruel. It is threatening. “Because I’m real. Because I remember what you want to forget. The lie. The theft. The child you failed. The days you drank to forget your name.”
I step forward. The air thickens. “I know all that. I carry it.”
“No,” he hisses, stepping closer too. “You carry the guilt. Not the memory. You recite the pain like scripture, but you never let it burn. You never let it change your shape.”
We are inches apart.
“I’m still here,” he says. “And if you walk past me without naming me, I will follow you. Forever.”
I don’t answer. My hand curls into a fist.
He sees it. Smiles wider. “Ah. There you are.”
The fog shudders.
And I strike.
My fist meets his jaw with a satisfying snap - but no recoil. His head turns slightly, but his smile never fades. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t bleed.
He lunges back. A blow to my ribs, sharp and precise. But it’s like mist passing through me - no pain, no bruise, only the memory of force.
We clash again. Hands, fists, shoves - each movement fierce, frantic, desperate. But every strike is hollow. We are shadow battling shadow, reflections throwing punches at ghosts in the mist.
Breathless, I stagger back. “Why…why can’t I hurt you?”
He straightens, brushing phantom dust from his shirt. “Because I’m not made of flesh. I’m made of every truth you never wanted to feel.”
My chest heaves. The forest watches. The fog hangs, unbroken.
“Then why fight me?”
“Because sometimes pain has to move.”
We stare. Neither of us blinks. Then the impact comes.
Shadows rise and rip from within. My flesh stands untouched, but the force tears through me…like skin flayed and organs ruptured. The feelings don’t rise, they erupt. I buckle, collapse to my knees, curling inward…fear folding into regret, shame oozing from remorse. I spill loose, raw and furious.
He crouches to meet my eyes but doesn’t reach for me. When he speaks, his voice is quieter now…no less sharp, but hollowed by something ancient, and fed by something near.
“There it is,” he says. “Not performance. Not penance. Just you. Split open. Finally.”
He circles me slowly as I tremble with the dirt, shadows peeling from my ribs like regrets with claws.
“You think I wanted this? You think I enjoy watching you crawl? No. I wanted you to see. You wear sorrow like armor, but you never let it pierce. You speak of healing, but only after you’ve rehearsed the script.”
He pauses behind me.
“Now… now you’re bleeding truth. And that…that is all I’ve ever wanted. Not your strength. Not your clarity. Just your ruined, honest self.”
He kneels beside me. I feel no touch, but his presence coils like smoke around my collapse, drinking me in.
“You can get up if you want,” he says. “Or stay. I won’t stop you. I won’t follow. But whatever you choose—know this: I will still be inside you. Waiting.”
He stands. I do not look up.
I can’t.
But I know, without seeing, without being told—I know.
He… no, I—
I walk away to take my place.
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and
First, it's a doppelgänger, but in reality, it's wrestling with the shadow self, the past, the trauma and mistakes. Loved it, Kim
This feels terrifying and tender at the same time. Like reading someone finally stop negotiating with their own darkness and just stand in it. The line between violence and healing is so thin here it almost hurts to read, but in a way that feels honest, not dramatic. It made me pause and breathe after, like I’d witnessed something private and sacred.