"Stop, just stop it please, It's killing me, Ethan, it's killin'..." and suddenly, everything stopped. The silence that followed was deafening, crushing, and absolute.

I fell to my knees, my heart fast, yet the room around me seemed frozen in time. Everything had vanished. All the chaos, all the noise was gone. It was just me, alone with the stillness, and the lifeless body lying in front of me. A corpse. A body that once held a soul. And the blood on my hands? How could I have done this? How could I have become this?

Was it really me? My hands trembled as I stared at them, the blood stains and the knife in glistening in the dim light. I—Ethan Holloway—had committed a monstrous act. A brutal, unforgivable crime. My chest tightened, and my breath came in short, ragged gasps. The realization was suffocating. I was a murderer. Not just a murderer. A monster.

Five years ago, I was just a kid. A kid who had no idea how much life could change, how much it could shatter. I hadn't even imagined that things would unravel this way. My mother's death. The move to Holloway. The diary. It all spiraled into this nightmare.

I used to be normal, or at least, I thought I was. Life wasn't perfect, but it was ours. My mom, my dad, my little sister Hannah, and I. We were a family. We lived in a small, cozy house far from where we are now. Hannah was just a toddler back then, barely three years old, and she adored me. She would follow me everywhere, her little feet padding behind me like a shadow. I loved her too. She was my world after Mom died. No, even before Mom died.

Mom… She was the glue that held us together. She had this way of making everything feel safe, even when it wasn't. Her laugh, her hugs, the way she used to sing us to sleep—it was all so warm, so comforting. But all that warmth vanished one cold, cruel night.

Dad was away on one of his endless business trips. Mom had gone to visit Grandma, who was always unwell. Grandma's frailty kept Mom tethered to our old home, even when Dad begged her to move to Holloway. He said it was better for his work, but Mom refused. She couldn't leave Grandma alone. Not when she was so sick.

That night, after tucking Hannah into bed, I asked Mom for chocolates. I didn't know any better. I was just a kid, selfish and naive. The grocery store was far, but in my little world, it didn't seem like a big deal. Mom and Dad always made it seem so quick and easy when they drove there. I didn't think about how far it actually was. Mom, being Mom, never said no to me. She smiled, kissed my forehead, and promised to bring back the chocolates.

It was 8 pm and she still went to get the chocolates but she never came back.

When Dad returned home hours later, he told me there had been an accident. He wouldn't let me see her, but I was stubborn. I needed to see her, to understand. When I finally did, the image burned itself into my memory forever. Her face… it was covered in scars. Not ordinary scars, but deep, jagged wounds. They weren't the result of an accident. They were something far worse. Something deliberate. Poisoned blades. That's what the doctors said. Poisoned blades.

I screamed until my throat felt raw. I cried until there were no tears left. I was a child, and I didn't understand why this had happened. Why someone would do this to her. To us. To me.

After Mom's death, everything fell apart. Dad decided to move us to Holloway, the very place Mom had resisted. He said it was for a fresh start, but it didn't feel fresh to me. It felt cold, empty, and wrong. Hannah was too young to understand, but I did. I knew we were running away. Running from the memories, the pain, the truth.

Holloway was nothing like our old home. It was small, isolated, and suffocating. The house Dad picked was old and creaky, with an attic that always seemed to whisper secrets in the dead of night. I hated it from the moment I saw it. But I hated myself more for hating it. It wasn't the house's fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. Or so I thought.

For the first few months, I kept to myself. I spent most of my time with Hannah, playing games, reading her stories, and trying to shield her from the weight of our loss. She was the reason to keep going, the reason why I kept living. But even she couldn't stop the darkness from creeping in.

Then I found the diary.

It was buried beneath a tile, a broken tile in the attic. At first, it seemed like an ordinary old journal, covered in dust and cobwebs. But when I opened it, the pages were blank. Completely blank. I almost put it back, but something stopped me. A feeling. A whisper. A compulsion.

If I had known this would become the reason for the darkness in my life now. I would never have picked it up.

Tears streamed down my face as I stared at the corpse. The realization hits me like a thunderclap. Mom wasn't killed in an accident. She was murdered. Just like this. Just like I… I can't even say it. I can't admit it.

I collapsed onto the floor, my body wracked with sobs. My mind screaming for forgiveness, for an escape, for anything but this. But there is no escape. There is no forgiveness. I am no better than the person who took my mother from me. I am a monster.

"Please," I whispered through the tears. "Please, forgive me."

But the silence offers no answers. And the darkness only grows.