"Where am I?!"
Shit! I can't see anything...
Just darkness. But it's not absence.
It's a kind of darkness that breathes, that watches, that thinks, that waits.
Suddenly, something takes shape up ahead.
Silent flames lick ancient books piled in impossible spirals.
An infinite library burns with black fire, but the fire makes no sound.
Each page turning to ash whispers in dead languages.
Sounds that shouldn't exist.
In the center of the chaos, a table stands intact.
On it, a freshly plucked raven's feather. A drop of black ink still drips.
Next to it, a blank sheet of paper.
When the drop hits the paper, a symbol appears:
An eye inside an hourglass, surrounded by seven broken keys.
Then, it appears.
A raven crosses the smoke.
Huge. Gigantic.
Its eyes reflect two worlds:
To the left, a man with a scarred face, kneeling, bound by words.
To the right, the same man, standing on a throne made of shattered mirrors.
The raven speaks, but not with its mouth.
Its voice explodes inside my skull:
"The sentence has already been written. The pen is still yours. But who is worthy to rewrite what has never been read?"
The words echo.
The world begins to melt in reverse.
Fire turns to ice.
Gray turns to color.
The old remakes itself.
I look at my hands.
They are handcuffed with strips of paper, inscribed in blood:
"Sleeping identity. Unrevealed chosen one. Inverted path."
At the back of the reborn library, a door opens.
Made of flesh and stone. Alive and dead.
And behind it, a child with my blue eyes.
She simply says:
"You haven't died enough yet to wake up."
The raven lands on my shoulder.
Tears my ear.
And whispers the last sound before everything fades:
"Show that you are the name they dared not speak."
I wake up, gasping for air, like each breath is stolen by force.
My chest burns. My head pulses like it's been pierced.
My body, soaked in sweat, feels like it just came out of an oven.
I look at myself and freeze inside.
Chains.
Tattoos I don't recognize scattered across my skin.
Almost naked, only my underwear intact.
But the pain, the pain is a hungry beast gnawing me from within.
I understand nothing.
And deep down, I pray this has nothing to do with the debts.
If it does, hell has come to collect with interest.
"Finally awake, my beautiful!"
I raise my head with effort.
The voice comes from a hooded woman, dressed in dark clothes, her face almost completely hidden, but what little I see is enough to make my skin crawl.
"Who are you? What the hell did you do to my body?"
"Young, popular, and a model. A face and body as beautiful as yours will be the best living sacrifice I can offer to my God of Wealth and Prosperity!"
"What?"
Now I realize the shit.
Walls covered with macabre symbols.
No windows. No natural light.
Only candles arranged in a ritual circle.
I'm chained to a chair, at the center of an altar.
My heart races.
My mind spins.
Flashes like gunshots: Elisabeth.
The debts. The hollow fame. The fake life.
And this woman, this disgusting witch.
"Surprised?
Your beauty would never go unnoticed, especially by those who deal with the occult."
She advances.
In her hand, a tattoo machine with a long, knife-sharp tip.
The tip gleams with my blood.
"I've been watching you for weeks.
Even with these tattoos all over your body, you're still beautiful.
Choosing you as an offering was my best choice.
My God will be proud and reward me."
The buzzing of the machine fills the air like the executioner's sentence.
She aims at my neck.
I'm trembling. No, I'm dying.
How did I end up here?
How did I fall into the hands of a fanatic?
Fear rips through me.
The needle pierces.
Chills run down every nerve.
The air disappears.
This life is shit.
And to make it worse, that cursed dream keeps chasing me night after night.
Maybe my days have really come to an end.
Maybe I'll die here.
She finishes the tattoo.
And laughs.
It's not a human laugh. It's a dirty, lewd, empty noise.
Then she starts to pray.
Or rather, to spit sounds that don't belong to this world:
"Ashsbs kkdhs sknzjbs..."
Nothing enters my head.
Only pain.
Not even in my possible end do I find peace.
Only thoughts, cursed thoughts.
The knife appears in her hand.
New. Shining. Lethal.
"P-please stop..."
Her gaze is stone.
She moves like one who obeys an invented god's orders.
I am the lamb.
The first cut on my chest is shallow.
The second, between the ribs, is deep enough to steal any hope.
I scream.
Hot blood runs down, staining the altar like paint on a profane canvas.
She cuts calmly.
Not out of anger, but conviction.
Each wound is an offering.
The pain stops being mine.
The cold takes its place.
My vision flickers, fading in intervals.
But I still think. I still fucking think.
"Life is a cruel show that never paid me for admission.
They threw me on stage with no script, no direction, and every applause was just another slap in the face."
I was the pretty face used as a cover.
I was the popular one who smiled to hide the cracks.
I was the name online, but never truly heard.
And now?
Now I die at the hands of a fanatic who saw more value in my face than in my being.
If this life is worth anything,
it's not for beauty, nor for fame.
It's for the scream given before silence.
And I screamed.
Loudly.
Until the end.