Veil of Shadows

Marked

Mark

The mark on her palm was unmistakable, a deep, dark, brand-like scar, as if someone had pressed a red-hot iron to her skin. It was visible, unmistakably there, like a permanent tattoo—a cattle brand seared into her flesh. It had no subtlety, no fading. It was sharp, jagged, and painful to the touch, the edges uneven, as if it had been burned into her skin with malicious intent. The pain that came with it was a constant companion now, a throb that echoed in her hand and crept up her arm, a never-ending ache that seemed to pulse with each beat of her heart.

At first, it was contained to her palm, but as the days passed, it spread. The edges of the mark seemed to slither upward, creeping across her wrist, darkening as it spread further, like ink soaking into her skin. It felt like her body was fighting against something, like it was trying to reject the brand but couldn't. The pain grew worse each day, the mark felt hotter, as if it was burning from the inside out, but there was nothing she could do to stop it.

She tried to wash it away, scrub it off, even apply creams to ease the discomfort, but nothing worked. The more she tried to fix it, the more the mark spread, consuming her skin. It felt like she was being marked, owned, as if the house or something else had claimed her, had branded her as its own.

Desperation drove her to seek help. She went to the doctor, hoping for an answer, a reason, some way to explain the burning brand on her skin. But the doctor couldn't see it, couldn't understand it. They looked at her hand, eyes scanning it briefly, before shaking their head. "There's nothing here," they said. "It's just a burn, maybe from something you touched."

But it wasn't just a burn. She could feel it. The pain, the heat, the way it seemed to be alive, spreading with its own will.

The blackness inside her seemed to grow stronger, clawing at her mind, whispering to her in the back of her head. It was an urge, a need, a thirst that she couldn't ignore. And no matter how much she resisted, the desire to drink the black liquid from her dreams became overwhelming.

One night, unable to resist any longer, she found herself standing in front of the mirror, staring into it, the mark on her palm now reaching up to her elbow. Her heart raced in her chest as her fingers trembled with the need to reach out and touch the glass. The temptation was too strong. She moved closer, slowly, her breath shallow, until she was standing directly in front of the mirror. She reached out, palm flat against the cool surface, feeling the heat emanating from the mark.

And then, as if drawn by an invisible force, she whispered into the reflection, her voice trembling: "Please, I need it. I need to feel it again."

The mirror rippled, the surface warping as if something—someone—was on the other side. Then, through the distortion, a figure appeared. Tall, shadowy, and familiar. The figure stepped forward, and she could feel it, the blackness, the liquid, calling to her. It was here, so close now. It was waiting.