My eyelids slide open to discover naught but blackness. ‘Am… am I still alive? Where am I? I… I believe my eyes are open, but it’s as if they are still shut. Wait, am I still hanging?’

Attempting to look upward, I find I cannot discern even a speck of light. I kick forward and backward, yet it merely leads to my body swaying. As I swing, the rope creates a hushed creak. This faint creak seems to be the only sound that exists in this place. Even the tiny hum that subsists in the ear in stillness such as this is absent. My situation grows ever more desperate as I endeavor to bring my hands forward only to find them still bound.

Time passes as I try to free myself, but it becomes more and more apparent that it is impossible. I try to sigh, and nothing happens. My lips purse as I venture to take a nice deep breath. Sheering pain shoots through my chest. I clench my bound fist in pain, spitting what I assume is syrupy blood from my throat. The anguish fades as I rest for a moment, regaining my senses.

‘Is... is this Hell? Is this my punishment for being born the way I was? To hang here in this tenebrous place, this wicked darkness, for all eternity?’

A tiny tremor from the blackness above buries the noose deeper into my neck. Gritting my teeth, I start to spin in circles, a sign that the rope above is fraying. I try to look up, but instead, a harsh snap echoes. My stomach twists into a knot as my hair drifts upwards, and the sensation of falling overtakes me. Plummeting downwards, I attempt to scream, but nothing comes out. I prepare for the pain as I land on my back with a blistering thud. I twist and turn, awaiting certain agony, yet it never arrives.

With the pain nowhere to be found, my focus shifts to removing the evil ropes. Without the use of my hands, I kick my legs until I am able to right myself. I sit up in a squatting position, bring my head low, and attempt to use my knees to loosen the noose. This goes on for a while, but after numerous failures, I realize it’s useless. I then try to sit and work my arms underneath my backside and legs in order to bring them to the front, but once more, it is a futile endeavor.

‘Thomas that simple-minded dullard. I am astonished he even understands how to tie a knot!’

Feeling the surface beneath me, I search for any sign of a protrusion to rub the rope against. It is faultlessly smooth all around. I try to sigh, yet find myself incapable of breathing any amount of air, and trying only causes the pain to grow more pronounced.

My head turns to the left, followed by the right; I frown. Rotating in place, I hunt for any dab of light in any direction. This only succeeds in confirming my eyes may as well not exist at all in a place such as this one. Beyond just dark, it is closer to a dense muck. It is not a blackness I could compare to anything, but the murk that befalls those in a deep, unbreakable sleep.

Like a turtle on its shell, I rock my body until I am able to get back on my feet. ‘…I suppose there is not a point in tarrying in one place. I should pick a direction and keep to it.’

With that thought, I choose a course, not that any of them are distinct, and march onward. Well aware of the possibility of traveling in circles, I attempt to step by placing one foot directly in front of the other. The sound of my bare feet slapping against the smooth ground and the shiver of the rope dragging behind me are the only indications that someone, something, exists here.

‘Certainly, there must be someone here. Preferably, someone friendly...' Staring into endless blackness, I cannot help but question whether something may be gazing back. My body trembles. '...I simply need to take one step at a time, and I will eventually find someone to help me. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven...’

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‘Can a place of absolute nothingness exist? I did not think so, but now I am not certain. It has to have been days, and I am beginning to feel hungry… I must keep pushing onward. One more time. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven...’

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‘Sleeping is impossible. I simply cannot sleep. Yet I am so hungry. There is nothing here, and I am not convinced there ever has been. I would trade my hands for a candle or food; they are useless anyway. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Si... Oh, hello again... Would thou like to make a trade?’

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‘...How long has it been? Weeks or months!? Keeping track of time here is futile. The only thing I am certain of is that this place is, in fact, Hell. Nay, I would say it might be worse. At least I would quickly lose my sanity in Hell.’

I collapse to my knees.

‘This is where I will linger for eternity rambling about in this perpetual dark, unable to breathe, unable to scream, unable to use my hands, yet there is always a feeling of unbearable hunger. My only relief will be madness whenever it arrives; I am convinced of that. I can feel something nagging at the back of my mind tempting me to devour my own feet. ...I already tried eating the hem of my gown. I could not swallow; the noose would not permit it.’

My bones creak as I force myself to my feet.

‘It took me quite some time to remove it from my throat.’

The beat of my feet against the surface breaks the absolute silence.

‘Just… just try. Perhaps, there is bread ahead. Aye, bread. I would fancy some bread…. One. Two. Three…’

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I stop.

‘I… I just cannot. Nay. I cannot anymore.’

Squatting, I place my head between my legs to come to terms with my fate. I flinch upon feeling how my legs have become leathery and stiff. Yet, I cannot bring myself to care for more than a second. I sit for what I assume are hours, unmoving, and unthinking.

‘I regret it. I regret not kicking, screaming, spitting, headbutting, anything to have not come here. I thought both my chances of escaping and surviving alone were none. I thought. I thought dying would be better. I cannot believe I thought that for even a moment.’

Falling from my squat to my side, my head bounces off the cold, hard ground. I gaze into the darkness, unblinking. A beast claws at my nape and tickles my feet—the noose and its loose strings.

‘Hurting, isolation, grief, struggling for a slice of bread, avoiding others in fear of hurting them, and her. I thought, with death, I would be free of all these things. It all seemed so welcoming at the time; I was just so exhausted by life. Yet, at the last moment, I understood I had made a mistake… and why did I care so much about dignity? I have never had such a thing a day in my life.’

The darkness feels as if it’s moving ever closer. Where once it simply embraced my skin, it now feels as if it is crawling underneath it.

‘I cannot. I cannot. I cannot… Perchance... Perchance, if I close my eyes. This time they will not open… or if they do, I can open them and start over. A new life or at least somewhere else. I do not care when or where.’

I close my eyes, and I keep them closed. Sleeping is impossible here, but at least I can pretend.

‘I will just shut my eyes and keep counting to pass the time. Perhaps, I should tap my foot. If... if I count… then it will not be so eerily quiet. Aye. One, **tap** two, **tap** three, **tap** four...’

The darkness encroaches evermore upon me.

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I open my eyes. There is nothing, and I am still here. I close my eyes and continue counting.

‘...I lost count; I will just start over at three hundred thousand again.’

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…… ””Is she asleep? Nay.” .…….

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I open my eyes. There is nothing, and I am still here. I close my eyes and continue counting.

‘This time a million: fifty, **tap** fifty-one, **tap** fifty-two…’

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This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

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I open my eyes. There is them, and I am still here. I close my eyes and continue counting.

‘My best was four million, or was it three? I shall just see if I can beat three: one, **tap** two, **tap**, three **tap**...’

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I open my eyes. There is nothing, and I am still here. I… what is that?

In this unending darkness, there is a glowing beacon of purple light.

‘Light. Frightful and purple, but light.’

I stand up, and my legs wobble before falling out from beneath me. My knees hit the ground, sending a shock of pain through my body, but there is light on the horizon, so I care little of this. Standing again, this time, only one leg falls from beneath me. The third time I finally manage to stand completely.

My feet beat against the smooth chilly ground. I shamble ever closer toward the light. If Preacher Daniel's is to be believed, this must be light that will cleanse my very soul. Perhaps, even rid me of the curse, the haze, that clung to me in life. My salvation awaits.

As I walk, the violet light casts shadows upon the ground. The shadows move and go about their business as if independent. Each of them acts differently. A woman's shadow wears a frilly skirt, standing on the tips of her toes performing spins and kicks. A man's shadow in what looks to be a fur coat beats his fist against his hand, yelling at a child's figure. Another is a bulky man in armor with a greatsword, swinging it to and fro as if fighting naught but himself.

These ignore me, but some follow in my stumbling steps. Those shadows act as if they have some kind of wits about them. A cry shatters the silence of this place. I stop.

My attention turns toward a scene of a girl weeping with her head buried in the linens of her bed. Though she is but a shadow, it is still possible to tell her dress and bedsheets are raggedy. I would place her age at around twelve years old, merely judging by her size.

“Why? Why am I different?” the girl whispers to herself, “I-I do not know what she or the black stuff is. Why will it not just leave me alone?!”

“Constance! What hast thou done this time, girl?!” a shrill screech of a woman’s voice sounds. “Thou art Lucifer’s child! I know it!”

The shadow of a nun appears and begins striking the girl with a broom handle.

“Nay! I am sorry, Mrs. Tilson!” the girl cries.

She screams and pleads for the nun to stop. A few minutes later, another girl appears nearby. She shares the same form as the one being beaten. Yet, although she shares the same body type, a haze swims around her. Some of the haze breaks away and promptly pours into the nun's mouth as the nun screams in agony.

The shadows flicker and disperse before reforming into a new scene, involving two girls.

The two girls seem identical, except one of them seems to have a strange haze surrounding them yet again. Judging by their size and body, they look to be around fifteen. The girl watches the hazy girl while tapping her finger against a table in rhythm. They stare at each other unmoving until finally, one of them breaks the silence.

“Why dost thou haunt me?” the girl asks.

“...” silence for one-hundred-seventeen taps.

“Dost thou know how to speak?” the girl shouts.

“...” silence for seventy-nine taps.

“Dost thou know anything?” the girl cries.

“...” silence for thirteen taps.

“Answer me!” the girl screams.

“...” silence; unable to keep count.

The girl collapses helplessly as the hazy girl breaks apart and moves into the collapsed girl’s figure. She cries before standing and walking to a shadowy table; she stares at the empty table.

“One meal at a time,” she whispers, “I shall make something special today.”

She shuffles toward the shadow of a stove to make herself dinner.

She fades away. A new set of shadows takes her place.

This time it shows a little girl running about. She looks around eight years old, and behind her follows the shadow of a cat. The girl stops suddenly as if noticing something. She tilts her head and reaches toward the ground before picking something up. Sniffing it, she gags and makes a sour expression. However, regardless, she pins her nose shut and brings the ‘food’ into her mouth. For a moment, she holds her stomach pitifully before eyeing something nearby. She picks it up and turns quickly toward the cat.

“Sir Mouser! I am Lady Nightingale! Master of the sword! En garde!” the girl shouts, holding up the shadow of a stick.

The cat roars proudly, “Me-OW!” and leaps at the girl playfully.

“Ah! Sir Mouser! I give! I give!” the girl shouts before breaking out in giggles, “Sir Mouser, thou art my best friend.”

“Meow.”

At the last moment, the hazy girl appears in the giggling girl’s place. They fade away.

I linger on as the rope of the noose snakes behind me, and the influence of the light grows. As I approach three people, stand as if awaiting me. They stand facing away from me, gazing at the source of the light. The first turns around, revealing herself to be covered in purple bruises.

“It was difficult… but we persevered. We would never admit it out loud, but after the nun was gone, we had one of the best years of our life. I want to have another good year like that one.”

Following her, a girl with teary eyes turns around.

“Sometimes we broke down… but we always got back up. I still remember how good our food was that night. I want to have more good food like that someday.”

The last girl turns around. She holds a stick in one hand and a cat in the other.

“We struggled… but we still had fun!” she shouts with a hop, “I want to have more fun! We cannot do that if we are gone!”

“Meow!” the cat roars.

“Constance the Unsinkable, they called us in the orphanage because despite how hard they tried, we never sank for very long,” the bruised girl says.

“The Unseen Witch of London is what the nobles called us because despite how hard they tried, they could never find us,” the crying girl states.

“Roach is what they called us on the street because despite how hard they tried, we could not be squashed!” the little girl shouts, holding her sword up high.

“““Art thou really us?””” they ask me together.

‘But that is exactly why we ran away. It… it was all too much.’

“Aye. Thou ran away because it was too much. Thou were tired, we understand,” the bruised girl answers with a weak expression.

“The opportunity to begin again was... tempting,“ the crying girl affirms, gazing off into the distance, “Even so, thou still had to isolate thyself from the others.”

“Because it does not matter where thou flees, she shall always be there!” the little girl states with a bit of solemn tone.

“Mow...” Sir Mouser whimpers.

The bruised girl corrects her expression and smiles at me. “Speaking of which, let us speak of her now. The girl of haze, she haunted us throughout our life…”

The crying girl turns back toward me and laughs. “Or so we liked to tell ourselves? We would regularly say everything was her fault…”

The little girl swings her stick with a renewed resolution. “or so we liked to believe? It’s hard to admit to ourselves...”

The three girls’ bodies begin to break apart, slowly changing.

“““But all of us deep down recognized the truth all along, did we not?””” they declare.

I think back, remembering the girl of haze. She was a mirror image of my body size and shape but was made of a twisted black smoke. The smoke was virulent to everything and would drive anything that breathed it in temporarily mad or worse if they breathed enough in. Sometimes, the haze would leak from my skin on its own, but the real problem was when the haze girl appeared. When she appeared, unless I was alone, something bad was bound to happen. Sometimes she would hurt people, create difficulties, drive people away from me, or worse. However, for a very long time now, I have known that she only came when certain ideas found their way into my head for a very long time. Put simply...

“She simply answered our thoughts and desires. She does not possess a will of her own,” the bruised girl says.

“It is not our fault, though; everyone has those intrusive thoughts. They simply do not have something like the haze,” the crying girl states.

“We were just different! But that does not mean any of us ever gave up,” the little girl shouts.

“““We always wanted to live, whatever our situation. Even if that meant we would have to become her.”””

Their bodies shatter like panes of glass, leaving three girls made of a black twisting haze.

Together they speak directly into my head, “““Now, what about thou, Constance Nightingale, dost thou wish to live?”””

They step away, revealing something that resembles a crystal, the source of the light.

The crystal-like object seems to be around a palm, or more precisely, three inches in diameter. Sharp edges project randomly from a core that looks to be, bumpy, irregular, and transparent. Both the sharp projects and the bumpy center have a blue and purple tint. Rather than a crystal, the object seems more akin to stained glass. For some reason, it seems to be nearly irresistible to me.

Hypnotized, I stumble toward the object until I am standing right next to it. I feel a rope dropping to the ground. I look back to find my hands have somehow been untied.

The bones in my arms ache and pop dozens of times as I pull them forward. Gazing at my freed hands, I notice they are pale and lifeless, but even so, I cannot help but return my focus to the glass object.

‘This…’ Raising my hand limply, I slowly bring it toward the glass. ‘This is something important to me, nay, essential.’

My rotted hand trembles as it approaches the glass with my fingertips extended. I feel a strange tingling the closer I get, but this odd feeling does not deter me. Slowly the tips of my left hand’s fingers move between the jagged edges to come into contact with the smooth core. I can feel a cold sensation spread through my body, making me shiver.

‘I do not wish to perish. I do not wish to be here anymore. I cannot, I am afraid.’

This is the place where the consciousness exists, and the soul subsists, feeding on its body’s excess essence.

Here a delicate balance between soul, consciousness, and body is maintained.

For most creatures, this balance will eventually shatter—death comes for them.

At that time, a soul would use its storage of Essence to return to the void, or their True God, where they await reincarnation. Yet, what if the soul does not have the necessary Essence to make the journey? Typically, this means they are fated to fade into oblivion.

Yet, when conditions are right, a rare soul can seek another way to survive—one last effort to Tower over the world and continue on alone by forsaking their form. Your soul has transmuted into an Oort Stained Glass variant Shell of the Tower type. The Shell requires a Flame to complete the process.

Would you like to add your flame of consciousness to the shell and make one last effort toward existence as a Kiln?

[Yes]        [No]

Warning: Denying activation will lead to death.

Warning: The birth of a Kiln is chaotic, and all organic life in the surrounding area will be reaped. If sapient life is detected in the area, reconfirmation will be required.

A large, slightly transparent purple wall appears before me. I blink with a half-open mouth. To me, this wall might as well be an angel or even a devil. Either one would be just as welcome as the other. I simply do not possess the stamina to meditate on the purple wall’s existence.

Treating it as if it is an everyday phenomenon, I study the purple wall's contents. In the end, I only understand some of what the purple wall is attempting to convey. But upon noticing the first warning, “denying activation will lead to death,” my mind is set, that is until the next sentence forces me to hesitate.

‘I do not understand what it means by “organic life.” What is that? Reaped? Like a field? So plants? Or like the grim reaper? What area? Where I died? But how long ago was that? And reconfirmation?‘ It is merely a moment’s hesitation. ‘Aye. I wish to live. I cannot stand it any longer. Prithee, take me away from here.’

The three girls of haze nod as the glass object draws them into it, leaving me alone once more.