Shadowbook

Chapter 1: Shadow-Diving

Part One: To Be a Shadow

"One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious." – Carl Jung 

Chapter 1

"𝕴𝖓 𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖘𝖙 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖑𝖙𝖍 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖞 𝖔𝖋 𝖑𝖎𝖋𝖊, 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖔𝖓 𝖓𝖊𝖊𝖉𝖘 𝖙𝖔 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖒𝖘 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖔𝖗 𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖉𝖔𝖜 𝖕𝖆𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖗 𝖕𝖔𝖜𝖊𝖗." –𝕮𝖆𝖗𝖔𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖊 𝕸𝖞𝖘𝖘

This is the story of how I crossed over to the dark side.

I'm not exactly sure when it started. It could have started with my mother and her tales of monsters. I didn't remember my mother, not in any meaningful capacity. I knew she had red hair like mine, and I can almost recall her voice, but most of my earliest memories are already of foster care.

Like most foster children, I pined for my mother. I knew that my real mother was out there somewhere, that she wasn't dead, and that she loved me. I didn't know what happened to her, though, or exactly how I ended up in foster care. It was as though she simply vanished from existence, and after a while, I gave up hope that she would return for me. Every once in a while, I questioned whether she was really real at all, or just something I made up to comfort myself.

What I remember is that I came to see darkness as comforting, as a place to hide from and escape from the trials of my life. So, that's a reason to think that deep down inside, I was always a Shadow.

☽

The first thing that struck me about my new foster-mother's house was that everything was white, off-white, or tan. The walls were white, the carpets and curtains were off-white, a leather couch and countertops were tan... bland, empty, cold colors. It was hideous. I froze like I was surrounded by ice, like there was something inherently threatening about all the immaculate white. The only dark thing in the room was a bronze cross hanging on the wall in the living room. I'd been in religious households before — some were good, with parents that took me in out of charity, and others were restrictive. This was going to be one of those ones. I was a sinner, and she wanted to save me.

My foster mother had straggly dyed-blond hair and a hooked nose, and she looked like an underfed hawk. She scowled at me, as if she were condemning me for existing. There was none of that fake honey-sweetness and affection that would fade within a week. She took one look at the sullen, scruffy teenager in her doorway and knew exactly what she was getting.

"I've heard you're a difficult one," she sniffed. "I've seen your type before. So, I'm going to lay down the ground rules right now. Idle hands are the Devil's playthings, so I expect you to keep yourself busy. You can go to the park or the library to do your homework, but nowhere else. You have clothes, so don't ask for them. Dress modestly — skirts below the knee. No boyfriends. No taking the Lord's name in vain. No buying anything over twenty dollars. No TV. No social media. Curfew is six o'clock, and you should be asleep by nine. I won't have you going out late and getting yourself into trouble."

"Wait, what? I have a bedtime? I'm not a child!"

"Already talking back to me! We'll need to fix that."

"What is this, a correctional facility?"

"If you don't behave, you might end up in one. I've taken in children like you before. You need some discipline. I can see it in your face. That's why you're here, isn't it? Wouldn't you rather be here than in a group home? You can stay here if you do what you're told. Break any rule and you're grounded, no phone calls."