Penetrate my mind—go ahead. Step inside, but don’t bother keeping your eyes open. The darkness is absolute, a void so dense that no star or full moon could ever cut through it. It is the kind of black that burns like ice against your skin.
Yet, the silence you expect never comes. The air vibrates with a cacophony of wailing souls—some crying, some screaming, others moaning in agony. A guttural, bestial growl rolls through the space, traveling from your feet to your chest, thick and suffocating. You get over it. Eventually, the hellish sounds become background noise, and something else catches your attention—a scent, rich and damp, like rain on hot concrete or asphalt. Urban petrichor?
Something tells you to turn your head toward a corner where flickering lights pulse in infrared. Hysterical laughter spills from the same place, high-pitched and unnatural. Mad. You move toward it. But the closer you get, the farther it seems, stretching time and space in a cruel paradox that can make you question your sanity. Nothing makes sense inside my mind. It won't make sense to you either.
You laugh—an involuntary, unsettling sound that escapes your lips. Why? Nothing about this is amusing. The red flashes intensify, illuminating glimpses of your path. Beneath you, the ground clings like a living membrane, pulsing under your weight. Trying to absorb you, but you never sink.
Still, you keep walking.
…Edward steps forward from the shadows, his presence is felt before it’s seen. He doesn’t glow or shimmer like a ghost might in a child’s tale—there’s nothing angelic about him. Instead, he’s etched in shades of grey, like he’s been plucked from an old photograph and dropped into this visceral landscape. His memory exists in monochrome, it's my fault. His eyes meet yours, and though they hold no light, you feel the weight of his knowledge pressing into your chest.
"You’ve been walking in circles," he says, his voice as heavy as the air, just like the first words you try to say after you cried for hours. Yes, like that. "Not that it matters. Here, every path loops back on itself."
You glance around. The sticky membrane beneath your feet still pulses faintly, like a dying heartbeat. The laughter in the distance has grown quieter now, and now a stream of whispers that coil around your ears like serpents distract you. Edward doesn’t wait for you to reply; he starts walking, and you follow, the soles of your shoes peeling away from the ground with each reluctant step. Where do you get the will to keep on moving from? There are four white strobing lights up above and it's almost like each one of those lights holds a string to your limbs to move you. Like a marionette. These four luminaries move you. Literally.
“This place… this system,” Edward mutters, half to himself, half to you. “It’s not built for you. It’s a machine, and machines don’t bleed or care. They don’t notice when people like us get caught in the gears.” [Chaplin pops into your head].
The path twists, narrowing until the walls close in on either side. The membrane gives way to jagged stone that scrapes at your arms as you squeeze through. The whispers turn to mocking voices, spitting your own thoughts back at you. The voices are like rottweilers and the know what you fear.
You’re not enough.
You’re wasting time.
Everything you’ve done has been for nothing.
Edward stops abruptly. “Ignore them,” he says, though the grim set of his jaw tells you he doesn’t believe it’s possible, yet he knows that Placebo can sometimes be the only "drug" that works.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TIsS4T_PN_w
The corridor spits you out into a cavern that stretches endlessly in all directions, its floor a mosaic of broken mirrors, like a what once was a dancefloor but now reflects nothing more than your basic instincts. Each fragment catches flashes of your reflection—your face distorted, twisted into expressions you’ve never worn but somehow recognize. Edward kneels beside one shard, brushing his fingers over the jagged edges.
“Do you remember the day I died?” he asks without looking up.
You don’t answer. You don’t have to. The memory slams into you like a wave, dragging you under. The formalin smell, the flickering city lights outside the windows of the funeral home, the sound of your mother’s wailing—it all rises from the mirrored floor like smoke, choking you. Edward stands, his hand balled into a fist.
“Every time you try to move forward, this place pulls you back here,” he says. “That’s what it does. It feeds on regret, on pain. But it’s a trap. You’re trapped because you believe you deserve it.”
The accusation cuts deep, but you can’t deny its truth. Edward’s gaze softens, just a little. He reaches out, his hand hovering just above your shoulder, like he’s afraid to touch you. But he still does, and the black blood he bleeds becomes a crimson stream of tears on your skin.
“Maybe you do deserve it,” he says quietly. “Maybe we all do. But that doesn’t mean you stop moving.”
He turns and starts walking again. You hesitate, staring down at the broken mirrors. One shard catches your eye—a flicker of movement. It’s you, years ago, laughing with someone you barely remember. The image shifts, morphing into something darker, and the laughter turns to screams.
“You coming?” Edward calls over his shoulder.
You force yourself to look away and follow. The sticky membrane returns underfoot, the petrichor thickening into something metallic and nauseating. You have smelled this before, as you wake up from surgery. Ahead, the red flashes of lightning grow brighter, illuminating shapes in the darkness—towering figures with hollow eyes and gaping mouths. They seem to lean toward you as you pass, their whispers growing louder. But never louder than a whisper.
“Do you know what this place really is?” Edward asks, as he keeps walking.
You shake your head.
“It’s the weight you carry. Every failure, every loss, every expectation you couldn’t meet. It’s not infinite because it’s some divine punishment. It’s infinite because you keep feeding it.”
His words sink in, and for a moment, the oppressive weight of the place lessens. But then the voices return, louder and more insistent, drowning out whatever fragile resolve you’d started to build. Edward stops again, turning to face you.
“Laughter,” he says. “That’s your weapon. Not because it makes it better, but because it keeps you sane. This place… it can’t stand laughter. It thrives on despair.”
The hysterical laughter from before suddenly feels less like madness and more like rebellion. You nod, a small, bitter smile creeping onto your face. The voices falter, just for a second. A long enough second. You'll take it.
Edward smiles faintly, his first real expression since he appeared. “Good,” he says. “Now let’s see how far we can go before it starts all over again.”