Archivist,
I... hurt someone last night.
I shouldn't have left your archives but I was so, so hungry. The story your friend told me was enough to bring my strength back, let me stumble out of your haven of Paper and Knowledge and into the streets. It was very good, please tell him I said thank you and that I'm sorry it wasn't enough to sate me for the entire night.
I found an old man in the rain. Homeless, I think. He had all his belongings with him in a soggy plastic bag. I was soaked through myself from the rain and collapsed next to him in a heap, ink running from my eyes and hands. I asked him for a story. He gave it to me but it was nonsense, something one would tell a young child. So I asked for another. And another.
The stories were from his life, and then they were his life. And then his most secret thoughts and feelings, his darkest moments, his deepest fears. He went on and on until my pages dried and he was lost in the shuffle. Then it was silent, and I felt... wonderful. Euphoric. Full.
It felt good to eat him.
I don't know where I begin and the Knowledge ends. I think I used to be a person, once. Someone of flesh and bone with a name. I can't remember it. I remember other things. I remember that I used to be a she, before my skin became Paper and my blood became ink. I remember she used to believe in witches and magic. She loved the occult and collected "haunted" objects. Dolls, books, furniture. She thought herself an expert on the mystic.
She found me in a bin and took me home to restore my filthy leafs coated in dried blood. She opened it to read, and then page after page she became me, and I became her. I thought she was a better fit for me than that arrogant little boy all those years ago that ignored my old master's warnings and tried to read me. He was lost in the pages. She became the pages.
My old master... I heard that you've been in contact with him. The young one, the one who used me up and never gave any of himself to me. I don't know if you've struck any kind of deal with him, but I would rather go back to that dusty eternal library and be alone and weak than be in his possession again.
I feel safe here in these rows of files and books and ink and Paper that whisper secrets and thrum with life. I feel... at home. I could wander these halls for ages and be content.
Can I stay here, with you? Please?
- 📖
[STATEMENT ENDS.]
...I...yes. Do come in. Take a seat.
The Archive recognizes you, though you are not yet Of It. You belong to something else, but you are welcome here.
I...I do Know you, though - your fear, your confusion and disgust at what you have become before the...elation, the relief of finally sating the hunger that grows inside you. I didn't even realize I was doing it, at first. And then I did, and then I...started doing it on purpose. It's like a drug, and stopping is so-
Regardless. As I said, the Archive welcomes you, it is hungry for the stories in your pages, as you hunger for the stories here. I'm not going to keep you as an addition to the collection, however; you are welcome here as a guest. You will be held to the same expectations of such.
And that means that you cannot cause harm to any here, or any of the statements themselves. If your consumption of them results in their destruction, then you will have to take the place of what you consumed.
Otherwise...between myself and Martin, I'm sure we have plenty of stories of our own, should the temptation to go out...hunting again take you.
On that note - as long as you are in Beholding's favor, you have its protection - your safety is not guaranteed. The Archives are not a safe place for anyone. You know you are being hunted, and I won't have your presence here threatening the preservation of my Statements (they do burn so easily).
If that is understood, then...
Welcome, Paper. Do make yourself at home. You'll get used to oppressive feelings of dread after a while.
...Would you like a cup of tea?