23/11/2025
๐ก๐ผ๐๐ฒ๐บ-๐๐ผ๐ผ ๐ฎ.๐ฌ | ๐๐๐๐ฉ ๐ฉ๐๐ ๐๐๐ก๐๐ฃ๐๐ ๐๐ค๐ก๐ ๐๐
โ๐๐ผ๐ป๐๐ฒ๐ป๐ ๐ช๐ฎ๐ฟ๐ป๐ถ๐ป๐ด: This story contains a graphic depiction of suicidal ideation and self-harm.
โThis room was my sanctuary, the hallowed space where I built my worlds. As a writer, I crafted realms of order and meaning, but this study was my first and most necessary creationโa fortress of pale wood and muted light where the only stories told were the ones I controlled. Here, the air was soft, the sounds were hushed, and every shadow was banished. It was a shrine to how the world knew me.
โThe door opened. I hadn't heard a knock.
โShe was justโฆ there. Nyctorn.
โ
โA coldness, thin and sharp, needled its way down my spine. She stood in the doorway, her form seeming to drink the light, making the air around her feel dense and heavy.
โโYou always retreat to thisโฆ quiet little space,โ she said. Her voice was low, a murmur that seemed to vibrate in the bones of the house itself.
โI forced my hands to unclench, hiding the pale, silvery trails that crisscrossed my palms. โItโs where I write. Where I think.โ
โโDo you?โ She glided into the room, and the gentle tick of the clock seemed to falter. Her eyes, dark and depthless, scanned the manuscript on my desk. โThey are talking about your new piece. They find itโฆ pleasant. Safe.โ
โA familiar dread began to coil in my stomach. โI donโt write for them.โ
โโDonโt you?โ She turned, and her smile was a bloodless thing. โEvery word is a plea for them to see the version of you youโve so painstakingly built. But I see the cracks. I see the rot festering behind the pretty prose.โ
โShe took a step closer, until the space between us was a single, charged breath.
โโI remember the silence after Samuelโs victory. That writer who used to mentor you, before he decided you were a competitor. The way you sat in the dark, not crying, but burning in a despair so complete it felt like a cavity in your chest. The envy was just the kindling; the despair was the true fire, consuming every good thing you ever believed about yourself, leaving only the ash of your failure.โ
โShe strode closer, her gaze pinning me, seeing the memory reflected in my pupils.
โ"The kitchen drawer where you keep the sharp things seemed to call your name that night, didn't it?" Her voice was flat, almost bored, but her eyes were fixed on mine, unblinking. She let the silence hang for a moment, letting the memory take shape in the air between us.
โ"It wasn't a voice," she continued, her tone chillingly matter-of-fact. "It was just a thought that felt too simple. A way to make the hollow feeling stop." She tilted her head, a cold, clinical gesture. "You thought about the small knife. The one for vegetables."
โMy eyes stung, but I couldn't look away. My own hands clenched involuntarily, the old scars on my palms burning with the ghost of that thought.
โ"You didn't think about dying," she whispered, leaning in so close I could feel her words like a cold draft. "You just thought about the act. The clean, definite line it would make." Her gaze dropped to my wrists, then back to my eyes, a knowing, terrible flicker. "How the pain would be in one place, outside of you, instead of everywhere inside. It was just a thing you knew you could do." She finally broke her stare, giving a slight, dismissive shrug as she delivered the final, devastating line. "A button you could press to make the static stop."
โMy breath caught, sharp and ragged in my throat. That memory was a locked box, buried deep, and she had just shattered it open with the casual cruelty of someone stating a simple fact.
โ"Get out," I whispered, the words frayed and thin, a pathetic defense against the truth she wore like a second skin.
โโYou always do this,โ I said, my voice gaining a wretched strength. โYou always find me. You claw your way in and you make me look at it. This hateโฆ this crawling, wretched thing I keep locked in the dark.โ
โโIt is the only thing that is truly yours,โ she replied, her voice dropping to an intimate, terrifying hush. โYou think if I were gone, the war inside you would end.โ
โShe was right in front of me now. My hand moved without my command, closing around the cold, hard weight of a granite bookend on the desk.
โโPlease,โ I begged, the plea torn from a raw place. โWhy wonโt you just leave me alone?โ
โShe didnโt answer. She just watched me, her head tilted. The impulse was a dark wave, shattering the source of the voice. Bring back the silence. My arm tensed, the weight of the stone a promise of oblivion.
โ"Nyctorn! Sweetheart, dinner is getting cold!"
โMy motherโs voice, warm and real, pierced the heavy air from the hallway.
โThe world slammed back into place.
โI gasped. The room was empty. I was alone, trembling, the bookend heavy in my hand. My mother had called me.
โNyctorn.
โFrom the hallway, I heard her footsteps approaching the study door.
โI lowered the bookend, my whole body shaking. And in the sudden, ringing quiet, I finally understood.
โThe horror was not the thing that had visited me. The horror was what remained when it was gone. The horror was the message it had come to deliver, the one now etched into the newfound silence.
โThe silence hadn't been peaceful. It had been listening. And now, it had told me exactly what it thought of me.
โWritten by: Federico Napiรฑas
โTemplate by: Angelyka Braรฑanola
