Eight
There is nothing left of me here. My face, my hands, everything is a blank white – my face is hidden behind a mask with four slits, one socket. One empty socket with no light, yet it burns as if there was. This transformation ripped pieces from myself. Maybe that's harsh to say, but that is what's in my reflection. I am as terrifying as the creature beyond the boundary.
Speaking of which, I can see it now, although I cannot stare at it for long. It might be closer, at this point? Not that it matters, really. That thing could be five miles or five feet away, and it would still make my skin crawl. After so much time in hiding, however, I've noticed something different about how it looks at me. I think it's the way the eyelids almost squint at me from a distance, or maybe it's the pupils growing smaller. I don't really know; all that's certain is that, as it stares at me from this distance, there is something hidden under this fear of mine. There is a confidence that swells in me that fills my thoughts with the same black oil. Now, however, it does not spill out of me. This is the only reason I continue to write right now.
My space has also changed during my time under the bed. The wood of my desk feels frail and weak when I put my weight on it, as well as my chair. The blankets and rugs are torn apart with holes on their edges, for some reason. The same goes for my playing cards that I left out. Even the air is difficult to breathe. I would blame the creature, but I don't think it can come in here at all. Even after all this time, all it does is violate. What's worse is that I'm almost used to that feeling of being observed from my time here. Almost.
The bitterness in my heart is keeping me grounded, so perhaps now is the best time to explain further. There was a time I was content with everything in this void of nothing. I had distractions that kept me focused on the interior of my space, that shielded me from looking too far into the horizon. Yet despite their best intentions, my curiosity took me beyond the border, and my feet learned to walk in my dreams. Then came that thing, who made me what I am now. That thing who does nothing but stare at me, transform me into something unrecognizable. Is that its fault, though? If I called attention to myself by breaking the rules put in place, do I really get to blame it? Throughout all of this, it never came to me, or ruined anything in my space. In fact, I don't think it can even breach the border. So I have to ask...
Who is ruining this place?
Nine
This is nothing but a shell. Time ticks on as I stand in the center of this room, looking back at the thing on the horizon, wondering what this place was even for. Better yet, what it will be, now that it's hardly anything to me. Without memory, or bonds, or anything that gave me fulfillment, I can only see this place as dead. The furniture collecting and turning into dust only proves my point. However, this place has one last trick up its sleeve. A novel.
It's almost too perfect, really. The pages are a perfect white, bound in a hard crimson cover with ornate designs across it. There is no name on the cover, nothing to identify it with or call it, but it doesn't matter. It's my book, and therefore it is my story. Each page tells the legend of a young man searching for his destiny, of his adventures in lands filled with familiar names that I have never seen before. I see him, within the words on these pages, fulfill himself in ways he and I have never realized. And as I read on repeatedly at this desk, the chair I sit on fades from my senses. The weight of its gaze is a bit more bearable. I wonder, then, if things can go back to what they used to be.
I used to be content with drifting off into dreams. They were my peace, my tranquility, a reflection of this space, which now sits rotting. There was a time that even laying on the carpet and gazing into the endless night brought me happiness. All I ever needed to keep it was to look in rather than out. This space, dark and lonesome as it is, would never abandon me. A comfortable place would never be able to do that. It is such a shame, then, that I understand its designs. This space believed it could keep me tranquil forever with its gifts, its games. It never thought I would be able to move beyond it and see it for all that it is, or that I would find the horrors it kept out. It is too late now.
I am sorry, old room. You made me happy when I fit in your walls. But this is the last you will see of me. It is time to write my own story, to dream one last time.
My Story
There once was a boy that lived in a room meant only for him. He thought of it as a comfortable place, where all of his desires were met with distractions that distracted him from the outside. The mirror kept him occupied with himself and the many features of a living thing. The rug kept his eyes on a woven pattern, offering a place to lay down and daydream. And the journal, worst of all, gave him the power to keep himself company. The first of many mistakes.
Trinkets cannot keep a boy entertained forever, though. He eventually grew tired of his own thoughts and shifted his gaze towards the dark horizon ahead. His desire to pass the barrier spilled through him, splitting him into two segments. The body had to stay behind in a state of rest. His mind, however, was able to slip through into the vast sea. It was there that he turned to his trapped visage and revealed how truly lonely he was. Nothing ever quite appeared the same after the first few introspections.
His discovery weighed on his heart from then on, refusing to leave his thoughts altogether. The space offered him consolation with a game of cards. However, this only delayed the inevitable. As captivating as it was for the boy to play games with himself, it never drove out the image of himself stuck inside the room. He had to try once more.
The second trip beyond the border only brought him down further. He met a creature with five horrible eyes that stalked him even outside of his dreams. It transformed him into a similar monster, destroying any feeling of safety. And as the boy hid under his bed, shaking at the thought of what lies beyond, another feeling shadowed his fear. It picked him up off the floor and onto his feet. It allowed him to stand out in the open, unafraid. It led him to think that revenge was a reward in itself.
Now, his spirit stands inches from the five eyes, furious at what it has done. All five eyes lock on to the single open socket in the boy's face. Eternity passes between the two before the boy eventually speaks out. He cries out in anguish, blaming himself and the creature for ruining the paradise that once was his space. Black tears stream down his white face and float into the nothingness as he weeps violently. Yet the creature remains silent. The boy's final attempt for empathy failed.
Now he stands in his room, recounting his ventures. He looks up to see that the monster is right outside of the border. Was it mocking him? Was it trying to tell him something? The black oil returned from deep within, boiling over in his throat while he looked at his enemy. That mysterious feeling was stronger than ever. It compelled him to stand up, to put the pen down...
And send his fist flying towards it.
Layer One: Infinite Intuition
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