"Dark, darker yet darker. The darkness keeps growing, the shadow's cutting deeper."
Arthur sat in the dank, fetid cell, the oppressive silence broken only by the occasional drip of water echoing from unseen depths. He was nineteen, a mere boy by most standards, yet the abyssal gloom in his eyes belied any semblance of youth. His once bright, raven-black hair now hung in greasy, tangled strands, a stark contrast to the pallor of his skin. His eyes, blacker than the void that surrounded him, were dead orbs, devoid of hope, devoid of life.
"I was just a normal kid," he murmured to himself, voice barely audible above the whispers of the darkness.
That damned ring. He remembered the day he stumbled upon it in the abandoned house on the outskirts of town, its cold, metallic sheen gleaming faintly amidst the dust and decay. The ring is a masterpiece of dark elegance yet inexplicably captivating Its surface is adorned with intricate engravings, each line and curve meticulously etched to create a mesmerizing pattern of swirling shadows and ethereal wisps. These engravings appear almost alive, shifting subtly as the ring catches the light, giving it an otherworldly, almost sentient quality. Without thinking, he'd slipped it onto his finger, and from that moment, his fate had been sealed. The ring, as if binding to his soul becomes a part of him
An ego had manifested, a presence, insidious and malignant. It had wormed its way into his mind, taking root in the fertile soil of his insecurities and fears. At first, it had been a whisper, a soft, seductive voice promising power, promising control. But Arthur was weak, his mind ill-equipped to withstand the onslaught. The ego grew stronger, its influence more pervasive, until he was little more than a puppet, a vessel for its dark desires.
The killings had started soon after. A neighbor, a "friend" then more and more. He had tried to stop, tried to resist, but the ego was relentless, pushing him further into the abyss. His hands, stained with blood, were no longer his own. The town had turned on him, branding him a monster, and he had been thrown into this dungeon, forgotten, left to rot.
Now, as the days bled into nights and the nights into an eternity of shadow, the ego still whispered. It mocked him, taunted him, reminded him of his crimes, of his failures. His sanity, once fragile, now hung by a thread, fraying more with each passing moment.
"Arthur," the voice hissed, a serpent's caress in the dark. "You cannot escape me. You cannot escape what you are."
A shadowy figure began to form in the dim light of the cell, coalescing into a grotesque parody of Arthur himself. Its eyes, twin pools of void, stared into his own, reflecting his deepest fears and darkest desires. It was a shadowy version of him, a twisted doppelgänger born from the ring's malevolence.
"Look at me," the shadow whispered, its voice an echo of Arthur's own. "I am you, and you are me. We are one."
"No!" Arthur cried out, pressing his hands to his ears, desperate to block out the sound, but it was futile. The voice was inside him, a part of him. "I am not a monster!"
"Oh, but you are," the shadow crooned, stepping closer, its form flickering like a flame in the dark. "You killed them all. You fulfilled your deepest desires, Arthur. You rid yourself of those you despised, those you wanted dead."
"That's not true!" Arthur's voice broke, a strangled sob escaping his lips. "I didn't want this. I never wanted this!"
The shadow laughed, a chilling sound that reverberated through the cell. "Denial won't save you. You cannot escape the truth. You cannot escape me."
Arthur's body trembled, racked with silent sobs, and he curled into himself, seeking solace in the cold, unyielding stone.
He tried to resist, to cling to the remnants of his sanity, but the void was calling to him, a siren song that promised release, oblivion. The darkness whispered of death, of an end to the torment, an escape from the relentless, unending horror.
"Just end it," the voice would say, its tone seductive, almost gentle. "End your suffering for your life is not worth living."
Arthur would stare at the walls of his cell, his eyes unfocused, his mind drifting. He thought of the ring, of the day he had found it, of the moments before everything had gone so horribly wrong. He thought of the people he had killed, their faces haunting his dreams, their voices echoing in his mind.
"I'm not a monster," he would whisper to himself, over and over, a desperate mantra. "I'm not a monster."
But the darkness would laugh, a hollow, mocking sound, and the shadow would step closer, its form solidifying, becoming more real, more tangible.
Arthur's resolve would crumble, and he would curl into himself, his body shaking with sobs. The thought of ending it all became a constant presence, a dark specter that lingered at the edges of his consciousness. He imagined the cold steel of a blade, the sharp edge of a shard of stone, the relief of letting go, of surrendering to the void.
As if in response to his thoughts, a blade materialized in his hand, formed entirely of shadows. It was exactly as he had envisioned—cold, sleek, and merciless, its edge glinting faintly in the dim light of the cell.
Arthur stared at the blade, his breath catching in his throat. It was as if the darkness itself had answered his silent plea, offering him an escape from the relentless torment. The blade felt real in his hand, its weight a chilling reminder of his desperate situation.
The shadowy doppelgänger stepped closer, its eyes gleaming with malevolent satisfaction. "Yes, Arthur," it whispered, its voice a twisted echo of his own. "End it. Free yourself from the pain."
Tears streamed down Arthur's face as he raised the blade, the shadows around him thickening, pressing in on all sides. His mind raced, memories flashing before his eyes—faces of those he had loved, those he had lost, those he had wronged. The faces of his victims, frozen in terror, haunted him, their silent accusations tearing at his soul.
"I'm not a monster," he sobbed, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm not a monster."
For a reason not known to him, Arthur couldn't hear the monster anymore. Maybe It's a sign that his life was over.
With a final, shuddering breath, Arthur brought the blade to his wrist, the cold, sharp edge biting into his skin. He hesitated for a moment, the weight of his actions pressing down on him, before dragging the blade across his flesh. Pain shot through him, sharp and intense, but it was quickly followed by a numbness, a sense of detachment.
Blood flowed freely from the wound, dark and glistening in the dim light. Arthur watched it pool on the floor, his vision blurring, his strength ebbing away. The shadowy blade slipped from his grasp, dissolving into the darkness from whence it came.
He collapsed onto the cold, unyielding stone, his body trembling, his breath growing shallow. The whispering voice of the ego grew fainter, its presence fading as his life slipped away. The oppressive darkness around him seemed to lift, the shadows receding, leaving only a profound sense of peace.
Arthur's eyes fluttered closed, his final thoughts a jumbled mix of regret and relief. The torment was ending, the suffering finally over. He was free, free from the malevolent presence that had plagued him, free from the horrors he had wrought.
Or was he...