I knew it would happen. I knew you wouldn’t be strong enough. You’re just a shell, a shadow of what you used to be. No, not a shadow. Shadows are dark. You don’t deserve the darkness. Look what they’ve done to you. Who are you? Can you even answer that? You’ll never get out of here. They’ll just keep chipping away, until there is nowhere for the dark to hide. You’re a coward. You hide in what little darkness you can find. You’re despicable. Can you find your words now? Does the Latin flow over your tongue as if you were born from it? Do you dwell in the darkness, bend it at your will? Are you anything but another stone at the seashore, meeting your fate in the hands of yet another child? No. You are nothing. You deserve nothing. Look at what you’ve made yourself. This is what you are. You’ve seen yourself in the light now. You can’t hide it. Did you really show any resistance? How easy it was for them to take you and bend you into what they wanted. How long did it take? Five days? Ten? Yes, yes, soon you’ll go home. But that isn’t your home. That is a home for darkness. You are not the night. You shall never have a home, never be anything but what they want you to be. This is what you’ve made of yourself. It’s shameful. You are not the night, and yet you still cling to it. Still hold hope at the darkness at the end of the tunnel. And you think you’re getting better. Your words, your identity, you darkness, none of it belongs to you. Who are you? There is no way of knowing, nothing you can identify with, nothing but loneliness to keep with you forever. You continue with life every day, blank and bleak in this sterile world. You just existing, barely, on the brink of insanity and you’re almost cured. And you’ve convinced everyone, even yourself, that you’re getting better. You’re not. In fact, you’re going to attempt to commit suicide tonight.
Immortality is a hard road, Luna, and as my gift, you’re going to travel it daily.