The darkness within me

0.3 -fragments of truth-

The darkness holds me in its grip, but this time, I refuse to let it win. I feel a flicker of resolve deep inside, a tiny flame that grows stronger with each passing moment. I have to remember. I have to uncover the truth, no matter how much it hurts.

The void around me begins to shift, and I feel a strange pulling sensation, like I'm being drawn through a tunnel of shadows. My heart races as the darkness gives way to dim, flickering light. I find myself standing in a different room—one that is eerily familiar.

It's larger than the last, with high ceilings and walls that seem to stretch endlessly. The room is sparsely furnished: a worn-out armchair in one corner, a dusty bookshelf against the far wall, and a large, ornate mirror hanging above an old, wooden desk. The mirror catches my eye immediately, its surface reflecting not just the room, but something more—something unsettling.

I approach the mirror, my steps slow and cautious. The reflection shows me standing alone in the room, but as I get closer, the image starts to change. The room behind me remains the same, but my reflection begins to flicker, like a broken video tape. Then, suddenly, I see someone else in the mirror with me—a man, standing just behind my shoulder.

I whirl around, but there's no one there. The room is empty, except for me. I turn back to the mirror, and the man is gone, replaced by my own reflection once more. But the unease lingers, crawling under my skin.

The man in the mirror... his face was familiar, too familiar. My thoughts flash back to the man who took the key—the man who said I had betrayed him. His image is burned into my mind now, haunting me like a ghost I can't shake off.

"Who are you?" I whisper to my reflection, but it offers no answers, only a hollow stare that mirrors my own confusion and fear.

I turn away from the mirror, trying to steady my breathing, and my eyes fall on the desk. A single sheet of paper lies on it, yellowed with age and covered in neat, precise handwriting. I pick it up, my hands trembling slightly as I begin to read.

The words are fragmented, disjointed, as if they were written by someone on the edge of losing their sanity:

Lila,

You can't keep running. You can't keep hiding from the truth. You know what you did. You know what he'll do if you don't face it.

The truth is locked away, but the key is in your hands. You have to use it.

The note ends abruptly, as if the writer had been interrupted. My heart sinks as I read the words over again, trying to piece together their meaning. The truth is locked away. The key is in my hands.

But I gave the key to him. I handed it over, desperate for answers, for a way out of this nightmare. And now... now what?

I crumple the note in my hand, frustration bubbling up inside me. I don't know what the truth is. I don't know what I'm supposed to remember. But the more I think about it, the more a cold, gnawing fear settles in the pit of my stomach. What if the truth is something I don't want to remember? What if it's something I can't live with?

The room seems to close in on me, the shadows growing longer, darker. I feel a sudden, overwhelming urge to leave, to escape before the walls start closing in for real. But as I turn to head for the door, I hear it—a voice, low and smooth, like the one that spoke to me in the darkness.

"Running away again, Lila?"

I freeze. The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, surrounding me, filling the room with its cold, accusing tone.

"I'm not running," I manage to say, though my voice wavers.

"Then why do you keep avoiding the truth?" the voice asks, dripping with contempt. "You can't hide forever. You'll have to face what you did."