The darkness within me

0.2 -whispers in the dark-

The darkness seems endless, swallowing up the narrow beam of light that stretches down the hallway. I walk carefully, each step hesitant, as if the floor might give way beneath me at any moment. My breath echoes softly in the confined space, mingling with the low hum of something unseen—something I can't quite place but can feel deep in my bones.

The air grows colder the farther I walk, biting at my skin. My legs feel heavy, as if they're trudging through water, but I force myself to keep moving. I have no idea where I'm going, but I know I can't stay in that room. The mirror and the voice haunted me, the memory of them a shadow that clings to my every thought.

What did I do? The question loops endlessly in my mind, each repetition more urgent, more desperate. Someone you betrayed, the voice had said. But who? And why?

As I press forward, I become aware of the walls narrowing, closing in around me. The hallway grows tighter, the light dimmer. My heart pounds in my chest, a rhythm of panic that I can't suppress. The darkness ahead is so thick it feels like it has substance, like I could reach out and touch it. But I don't dare. I keep my hands close, clenching them into fists to keep them from trembling.

The air is dense, almost suffocating, and each breath feels like a struggle. I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to see the figure from before, or perhaps even my own reflection following me. But there's nothing. Just the long, empty corridor and the distant echoes of my own footsteps.

I don't know how long I walk—minutes, hours? Time has lost all meaning here. But just when I think the darkness will consume me entirely, I see it: a door, barely visible in the faint light. It's old and worn, the wood splintered and cracked, with a heavy iron handle that looks like it hasn't been touched in years.

I hesitate, my hand hovering just above the handle. A part of me doesn't want to open it, doesn't want to see what lies beyond. But I can't turn back now. There's nothing behind me except more questions and fear. Whatever awaits me on the other side of this door, I have to face it.

With a deep breath, I grip the cold iron and push. The door creaks loudly, the sound grating against my nerves, but it opens easily enough, revealing a dimly lit room beyond.

The space is small, claustrophobic, with walls lined in old, faded wallpaper that might once have been beautiful. A single, flickering bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting long, twisted shadows that dance across the floor. In the center of the room is a table, and on that table—something that makes my heart stop.

A black journal, its cover worn and frayed, lies open, as if someone had just been reading it. Next to it, a small, silver key gleams in the dim light. The sight of the journal stirs something deep within me—a sense of familiarity, of dread.

Slowly, I approach the table, my eyes locked on the journal. My hand trembles as I reach out to touch it, my fingers brushing against the rough, cracked leather. The sensation sends a shiver through me, like touching something both intimate and forbidden.

I can't resist the urge to look inside. I flip the pages with care, afraid they might disintegrate under my touch. The handwriting is sharp, precise—someone meticulous, someone who needed control. Each page is filled with words that seem to blur and shift as I try to read them, as if they were written in a language I should understand but don't.

But one thing is clear. My name, scrawled at the top of the first page in bold, unmistakable letters.

Lila.

The name sends a jolt through me, a flicker of recognition that fades almost as soon as it appears. Lila. Is that me? It has to be. But why does it feel so foreign, like trying on someone else's identity?