I need to tell somebody what I’ve done. It all started on a chilly Friday evening when the power went out in my neighbourhood. My friends and I explored the abandoned house on the city’s outskirts with nothing to do other than freeze our butts off. Walking through the creaky old rooms covered with thick cobwebs, we encountered a mysterious locked door in the basement. Curiosity soon got the best of us, and we pried it open with a crowbar we brought.
Inside, we found a dusty old chest filled with ancient-looking artifacts. Some looked familiar, like the ones you read about in history books. Still, the most intriguing item was an ornate dagger adorned with amethysts and sapphires, with strange symbols etched into the blade. Without thinking, I took it out of the chest and pocketed it as a souvenir of our blackout adventure. Unfortunately, that’s when things started to go horribly wrong.
Strange things began to happen. At first, I chalked it up to my usual bad luck. I even got a good luck charm to help put my superstitious mind at ease. More often than not, though, I was tossing and turning in bed almost nightly, unable to fall into REM sleep. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we had unleashed something dark and malevolent into the world by taking the dagger. As the days passed, I became more and more convinced that the dagger was the cause of all our troubles.
I knew I had to take responsibility for my actions and make things right by putting the dagger back where I found it, but I was overwhelmed with fear and guilt. The weight on my conscience was unbearable, and I couldn’t bear the burden alone. I needed to confide in someone, to share this heavy secret before it was too late and the darkness consumed us all. The question is, who do I even talk to? If I managed to find that person, who’s to say they’ll believe me? On the other hand, it’s a risk that I have to take. The fate of the world depends on me correcting my mistakes.
Tiffany’s Writing Desk 