Log 8 — The Darkest Light
I woke up today and my eyes were black.
Not metaphorically. I mean literally. My iris were white. My sclera—the part that's supposed to be white—was jet black. Inverted.
Yeah. I Googled the terms just to be sure. Iris. Sclera. I'm not stupid.
And I smiled. A wide, toothy, ear-to-ear grin that actually hurt. I could feel the skin in my cheeks tightening like it wasn't made to stretch that far. I laughed—soft at first, then louder, louder still—until it turned into something between a cackle and a sob.
The black orbs I used to see? The hands in the mirrors? They weren't hiding anymore.
They were here.
Crawling out of the walls. Slithering from the ceiling. Bursting from the floor like worms through damp soil. The orbs hovered in the air and exploded into black mist, hissing and fading like smoke.
They weren't hiding.
They were celebrating.
"You feel it, don't you?" a voice whispered. Not out loud—inside me.
It wasn't harsh or scary. It was smooth. Soothing. Seductive. The kind of voice that makes you want to lean in even when your instincts scream to run.
"You're finally free."
And I was. That's the terrifying part. I felt free.
The sadness. The pressure. The endless choking fog that followed me for years—it vanished.
It was like I'd taken the world's strongest drug. Euphoric, weightless, completely unbothered. But I hadn't taken anything. I didn't need to.
Something inside me had broken through. Something I didn't understand. Something old. Ancient. Hungry.
Tentacles—not literal ones, but... thoughts, sensations—slithered through my brain. Wrapped around my spine. Coiled through my nerves.
"Give me more," it whispered. "More pain. More hatred. More of what made you weak."
And I knew what it wanted.
Not just my emotions. It wanted to feed on others. On their grief. Their anger. Their fear.
It wanted suffering. And I was the key.
"You were the cradle," it said. "Everything you went through—the trauma, the heartbreak, the nightmares—it was all nutrients to my birth."
I should've been horrified. I should've screamed. But instead, I nodded.
I smiled.
Because for the first time in years, I had a reason to keep going. A purpose. I wasn't just some broken kid anymore. I was something... more.
"I'm listening," I said aloud, eyes glowing in the dim room. "Tell me what you need."
There was silence.
Heavy. Electric. Alive.
And then the voice returned, louder than ever—echoing through the marrow of my bones:
"I need more power."
[End of Log 8 — The Darkest Light]