My shadow’s darker than usual, not the mere absence of light, but something else entirely. A tangible void, writhing in its own human-shaped confinement, anchored beneath my feet. A buried tick, feeding on what makes me human, leaving a hole leaking of emotions and memories. No longer a companion, but a parasyte, a presence as dark and twisted as its own appearance.

Today, as I turn on the worn down lightbulb beside my bed, its bright rays haphazardly spreading all around my bedroom much like the last breaths of a withered man, I don’t fail to notice its absence. Long gone, no longer by my side, now on the hunt for some other poor soul to leech off of, ready to get more of what keeps it alive, following a primal urge to feed, leaving only a frail old husk in its wake.

I no longer feel human, nor do I remember what being one once felt like. My reflection in the mirror seems as empty and hollow as I am. No longer a man, but a silhouette, no longer a person, but the shadow of one, a mocking memorial of what once was.

They say your shade’s no more than that of your soul. I sure do feel as if that’s what’s left of me.

If you ever have the misfortune of finding us, turn off your lights.

We take comfort in the dark.