#darkwriting

[theunholyhand]

I Don’t Remember When I Changed

I keep telling myself I wasn’t always like this.

There was a time when I could walk into a room and feel normal. I could laugh at the right moments, answer people without thinking too hard, look someone in the eye and not wonder what they saw looking back.

It’s how still everything gets inside me.

I look up like someone might tell me I’m not too far gone.

But no one ever does.

[the-most-humble-blog]

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<meta anomaly-type="mortality-card-game-parable-expanded"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="CARD_GAME_WITH_TIME_AND_DEATH::EXPANDED" EFFECT="existential dread, statistical gut-punch, cosmic futility revelation" </script>

WHAT IF FATHER TIME & DEATH WERE PLAYING A CARD GAME?

What if your card--my card-- all our cards are in the deck?

What if everything we call “life” is nothing more than the shuffle and draw of two players who never laugh, never fold, and never once ask your permission?

We like to think we’re building something. Careers. Legacies. Families. Futures. But in the end, it’s just one card flipped from the deck.

Blink. Shuffle. Deal. Gone.

When your card is pulled that’s it.

No speeches. No warning. No soundtrack swell.

Just discard pile.

I. YOU WERE NEVER IN CHARGE

You tell yourself you are. You set alarms. You make schedules. You chase money. You think “control” is real.

But it isn’t.

Billionaire? Doesn’t matter. Father Time doesn’t pause for yachts.

Millionaire? Still irrelevant. Death doesn’t care how many digits are in your account.

Clout? Your followers can’t stop the reaper’s hand. Your trending post is a whisper in a graveyard.

Father? So. Mother? Meh. Child? …sorry.

When the deck is shuffled, your roles don’t matter. Your titles don’t matter. Your little human dramas burn into the same ash as the nameless faces that never even made history.

II. THE STATISTICS YOU CAN’T IGNORE

Let’s rip the veil off.

Every day, over 150,000 people die. That’s two people every second.

Snap your fingers. Two cards just hit the table.

By the time you finish reading this? Another thousand souls, flipped and discarded.

Your life expectancy? Around 4,000 weeks if you’re lucky. That’s it. Not infinite summers. Not unlimited tomorrows. Four. Thousand. Weeks.

Sounds like a lot until you do the math:

You get about 25,000 mornings in total.

Around 700,000 hours of breathing.

Roughly 2.5 billion heartbeats.

You’ve already burned through a terrifying percentage of those. Most of them wasted scrolling, worrying, waiting for someone else to move first.

And none of them will stop the moment your card is drawn.

III. THE COSMIC CASUALTY

Here’s the part you don’t want to hear: When your card is flipped, the game doesn’t stop.

The table doesn’t pause for mourning. Time doesn’t fold its arms in respect. Death doesn’t drop a single tear.

The game continues. The shuffling doesn’t end. Another card is drawn. Another life blinks out.

And soon, no one even remembers the shape of your face.

Within three generations, almost no one remembers you at all. You fade from photos, from stories, from the world itself.

Your name becomes a half-erased scribble in a family Bible or a digital file corrupted by the march of updates.

That’s the real discard pile.

IV. YOU THINK YOU’RE ABOVE IT

You aren’t.

Not above the shuffle. Not above the draw. Not above the discard.

Your wealth, your body, your followers, your righteous opinions, your careful plans

all kindling.

The fire doesn’t care how expensive the wood is.

V. THE QUESTION YOU CAN’T ESCAPE

So here’s the only question worth asking:

What do you do knowing your card is already in the deck?

Do you waste your hours pretending you can control the shuffle? Or do you live with the reckless awareness that your card could be pulled tonight, tomorrow, or 40 years from now and it makes no difference to the dealer?

Do you hold your tongue? Do you keep waiting? Do you keep living like time is your servant?

Or do you finally speak? Finally burn? Finally stop pretending you get infinite draws?

Because the shuffle is happening right now. And the next hand could be yours.

---

Reblog if this hit you like a card snap in your chest.

Read more cadence-based mortality parables and scrolltrap transmissions at: 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

🛡️ Blacksite Literature. Existential card games.

☠️ Reminder: When your number’s up, the table doesn’t stop.

They just keep playing.

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<!-- END TRANSMISSION [AUTO-SHUFFLE IN: 00:04:44] -->

[echoes-of-hell-city]

Pink light bleeds across June’s tiny room. Ribbons hang from every corner, stuffed animals smile with missing eyes. She sits on the bed, writing in her notebook.

She looks up, voice sweet, fragile:

“Don’t worry. You’re mine now. You won’t ever leave.”

[noobiestnoober]

Soundproof Shadows (Viraj X F!Reader)

🖤 Soundproof Shadows 🖤 Genre: Angst | Dark | Psychological Thriller | Reader-insert (f!reader)

Summary: In the glow of a fading party, Y/N feels the weight of Viraj Dobriyal’s gaze before the night twists into something darker. Dragged into a soundproof room, bound in leather straps, she is forced to face an impossible choice—betray him, or surrender. But either way, Viraj has already decided: freedom is nothing but an illusion.

The night had started like any other, with a gathering meant to distract from the monotony of the week. The courtyard buzzed with laughter, glasses clinked, and strings of golden lights swayed gently in the breeze. It should have been comforting, yet a cold knot coiled in your stomach. Because even in the middle of it all, you could feel his gaze.

Viraj Dobriyal.

He didn’t need to be close for his presence to consume you. It lingered like smoke creeping under a door—insidious, impossible to ignore—until every breath felt heavier. His shirt was—as always—half-buttoned in casual arrogance, as though he wanted the world to know his confidence could never be questioned. His eyes dragged against your skin, daring you to acknowledge what you already knew: he saw everything. Every step, every glance, every breath.

You avoided him as best you could, clinging to conversations, hiding in groups, laughing when it felt unnatural. But the crowd thinned as the hours passed, friends drifting off in twos and threes. The music softened, shadows stretched longer, and the night’s warmth bled away. You felt it then—the shift. The safety of numbers was gone. A strange stillness crept in, and every instinct screamed that you were being watched.

That was when he found you.

A hand, cold and unyielding, closed around your wrist. Your body stiffened, breath catching in your throat, but he didn’t allow hesitation. Viraj pulled you into the shadows with a purpose so sharp, so deliberate, that resistance felt futile. You thought about screaming, but the look in his eyes froze the sound in your lungs. Those eyes carried promises written in blood and cruelty, and you understood—men like him didn’t grant second chances.

The path blurred into darkness. One hallway became another, a staircase descended, and before you could regain your bearings, you were shoved into a room you didn’t recognize. The air shifted instantly: thick with leather and something darker. The door slammed, followed by the sound of locks sliding into place like a judge’s gavel. Final. Inescapable.

The walls stood bare—no windows, no exits. Silence reigned, broken only by the thunder of your pulse. You barely had time to register your surroundings before the binds came. Smooth leather straps wrapped your wrists, biting into skin with every twitch of defiance. He tied them with slow, practiced precision, as though binding you was a ritual, as though it gave him satisfaction in itself. His smirk deepened at your futile struggles, a predator’s amusement at prey caught in its own panic.

“You can scream my name all you want,” he whispered, his voice sliding against your nerves like silk and steel. “But the walls are soundproof.”

The words sank into you, chilling marrow and bone. He leaned back slightly, regarding you with the detached calm of someone in complete control. To him, you were already his—stripped of freedom, stripped of choice. Yet he dangled the illusion of decision before you, a cruel game where every outcome served him.

The choice was laid out like an executioner’s blade. Betray him, and maybe, just maybe, find a fleeting chance at escape. Or save yourself—cling to him, become what he demanded, and accept that freedom was only a mirage. But betrayal meant blood. And blood meant death. Everyone knew: no one crossed Viraj Dobriyal and lived to tell.

“You think you can save yourself by betraying me?” His tone was deceptively soft, yet every syllable slithered like a knife across raw skin. He took a step forward, slow and deliberate. The distance between you collapsed until his shadow merged with yours, until the heat of his presence pressed against every inch of your being. He burned without touching you.

He crouched down, gripping your chin with a touch that was cruelly gentle, forcing your eyes up into his. His gaze was endless—bottomless darkness, sharpened cruelty, merciless in its clarity. You wanted to look away, to close your eyes, but he held you captive with nothing more than the weight of his stare.

“Every decision you make, every breath you take—it already belongs to me.” His thumb brushed your jawline, deceptively tender, a mockery of comfort. He tilted your face, studying you as though measuring how much of you he could break before you shattered completely.

Silence stretched, oppressive, filled only with the ragged sound of your own breathing. Your chest heaved as though the room itself had shrunk, the walls pressing closer, stealing oxygen with each passing second. The binds cut deeper into your skin. The truth was merciless—escape was an illusion. Freedom was a fantasy. All that remained was him.

“Choose,” he murmured, and though the word was simple, it thundered like a verdict. “Betray me… or stay. Either way, you’re mine.”

The words hung heavy in the stillness, dripping into the cracks of your thoughts like poison. Betrayal or surrender. Both paths led to ruin, and yet he made you believe you had a choice. That was his cruelty—offering false doors in a maze where every exit circled back to him.

His lips brushed against your ear, feather-light, a ghost of touch that made you shudder. His voice carried through the dark, soft, intimate, but it wasn’t a promise. It was damnation.

“You’ll find,” he whispered, “there’s no saving yourself from me.”

Silence followed. Heavy. Absolute. The only proof of life was the sound of your own breath—shallow, trembling, bound in his shadow.

[veilofpoeticrifts]

Paranoia Has A Voice

It doesn’t scream. It whispers your name Until you start answering back.

Sometimes i wonder if I’m arguing with my thoughts Or if they’ve finally learned to argue on their own.

[redpenpredator]

Most writers don’t have a writing problem. They have a reader problem.

Friends praise you. Readers leave quietly.

The difference between a good story and a gripping one is the moment a real reader shows you what doesn’t work — pacing, emotion, character logic, and the scenes you thought were clear but aren’t.

I don’t rewrite your book. I reveal how it feels to someone experiencing it for the first time — honestly and constructively.

If you’re serious about improving before publishing, message me and tell me about your project.

[deerandpomegranates]

Origami

i was perfect, untouched, unused now look at me as i lay on the floor crumpled and scribbled over there’s probably something wrong with me to justify the treatment that brought me to this state you found me in this same position and erased the markings left on me and flattened me out the best you could you began to fold me until i was transformed a small crane was made out of what i once was i wasn’t perfect in the way i was before but i was perfect because i was yours you put me on display and admired me everyday you picked me up and looked at me your compliments flooded my mind sometimes you would be too rough it wasn’t your fault i tore i was already weak you fixed me with tape and glue and left before i could crumple again now i sit waiting until you come back the gentle folds you made slowly coming undone

© 2024 deerandpomegranates, All Rights Reserved please do not upload my content to other sights without my consent/credit

[lilac-den]

The 0 among numbers

Warning: Pretty dark thinking, mental conflicts, a bit of depression dripped in.

This isn’t exactly something I write for myself. It’s mainly out of the frustration of a lot of things, especially at how little people have treated content creators or the like, how degrading they believe the creators are without knowing the struggles they faced in completing what they drew, written or created.

So I guess this is my way to send a small message to any content creator that struggles with self-worth or facing self-doubt.

I’m not sure if it will brighten up your day or darken it. I’m more focused on the fact any content creator who loves their creation or work as much as a parent to a child deserves more love than the world can offer.

Thank you for taking the time to check this out. Feel free to share or reblog this to anyone you know to be a loving content creator.

“You suck.”

“You’re bad at this.”

“Why are you even alive, lol?”

“Why is this still going on?”

“This is too hard. This sucks.”

Hands are settled to a stop. My body grows slack in exhaustion while my eyes trail on to the comments on the window of my computer. Hate is blaring with daggers; toxicity is pouring out in letters and spite paints it all as a huge front-line notice.

Heaviness weighs down on me. A sinking depth lies within my mind. Tension fills my shoulders. I cross my arms on the top of my desk and rest my forehead onto them.

They’re just haters.

They’re nothing more than words.

They’re just looking to start a fight.

But even so, that doesn’t make the pain any less suffocating.

No matter how hard I try on my own, they keep increasing. 1, 2, 3, 4. More and more, they grow. The hate simply increases.

Is there a purpose for my creation?

Are there any enjoyment found in what I have produced?

Have there been any sense of comfort to those who desire what I consider my own version of art?

“I don’t like how this turns out – can’t you change it?”

“I don’t get it – why did you make it so easy? Make it harder.”

“The plot is too complicated.”

“The art style isn’t my taste – maybe try using watercolours.”

“This is pure shit. Why are you even continuing this? Just stop already, you suck.”

It’s like an echo; repeating over and over against my ears. I can feel my chest constricting, my throat tightening and hands clutching onto me to drag me down.

I get up. I pace around the room.

Keep moving. Keep going.

Don’t let their words catch you.

Don’t let your mind be clouded.

“When are you going to post more?”

“Where’s the next part?”

“Dude, why is it taking so long? Writing can’t be that hard, right?”

“Why are these drawings locked behind some pay toll? It’s just a couple of drawings – they should be free, asshole.”

“This is just like every other people. Just because you can write, or draw doesn’t mean there should be a pay bar. Make it free for all of us!”

“Hey, if anyone paid for the content, share it with the rest of us! I don’t want my money to get wasted lol”

My breath shudders.

90…91…92…

93…94…95…

“I can draw better than this bitch.”

“Seriously, you call this writing? Lol, I can make it better than that.”

“Why is there a hiatus? Fuck this shit, I’m out.”

“Dumb creator can’t fix their own rl shit #ripcreator”

96…97…98…99…

…

…

Why are people so entitled?

Why do people assume our life is expendable?

Do they not realize the blood, sweat and tears that were poured?

Or have they never tasted the blockage or burn outs that many of us face?

I don’t know…And I lost the will to muster anything beyond despair.

I stop pacing.

I stop moving.

I set myself back onto the chair and sigh, staring…My vision blurs. I blink.

It feels like something’s broken in me.

Something hollow.

Something empty.

These people who have seen my work, watched it, continue to berate me. Mock me. Haunt me. Like I’m nothing but a singular number to them.

…No.

A number earns more respect than that.

They have value.

They have a purpose.

I’m just a zero to them.

I’m nothing.

I’m just an empty waste of space.

I’m just a failed creator.

I’m…I’m just a waste of time.

No one would miss me.

…

…

…

“I love your work.”

I raise my head. A person stands out, amongst the hate. The hate goes silent. The person continues typing out.

Please don’t take their words to heart. You’ve gotten me through tough times.

It hurts a lot to have people bully you about what you love.

I know.

But I still think they’re awesome.

I know they’re great.

You put so much heart and effort in them.

Even if people say your stuff sucks,

I still think they’re worth living for.

And I know there’s at least one person out there who would agree with me.

Like how there’s one community who cares about what you do.

Sure enough, that one person invites another…and another…and so much more.

“Give them a break! They’ve been working their ass off!”

“They’re already publishing so hard in between their free time!”

“I love the way you draw the eyes.”

“I’m crying over this RO – I want to hug them so bad!”

“I love their personality. I’ll need to try romancing them with a different MC!”

“This is so cool!”

“Please take care of yourself – take all the time you need.”

These words make me elevate. The suffocation, the hands, the pressure.

They disappear. I smile. I laugh. I cry from the absolute relief as I wipe away the signs of my pure joy at the recognition. All from someone who loves my work.

If the world considers me something worse than 0, then I can consider myself 00. I will agree to that.

Because in the end, I only need one to feel like 100.