#echoesofthevoid

"You've always got a bad feeling about things. Who are you Luke bloody Skywalker?"

One breath. Two breaths. Three. With each one, she felt the tightness in her chest and the grip on her broom tighten. Mary lay flat on the ground, a lump on the top of her head, and sweat on her brow. "'ve seen you dodge them bludgers so many times before. You make it look so easy!" She winced slightly. "I think it's because 'm short."

"Because no one is listening!" Her voice was exasperated and tired. She'd gone so long, searching but to no avail. Her hands held the fray cat, holding it closer, almost desperately. It had been a small altercation where some neighborhood teens had attempted to kick the innocent animal.

They don’t tell you about the hollow, how it sits in your chest, a space that wasn't there before. A place so empty it screams. A place you can’t run from, because it's not outside. It’s not the world that tortures you. It’s the nothing that is you.

Imagine staring into a mirror, and seeing nothing but the echoes of yourself, as if your skin is a ghost in its own right. Your eyes? Empty sockets, staring through the dark. Your soul? A faded memory, slipping like sand between fingers that forgot how to hold.

The silence doesn't come at night. It is your night. It is your shadow. It swallows you whole, leaves nothing but the taste of decay on your tongue. It doesn’t make noise. It doesn’t need to.

Inside, it feels like being buried alive— not in dirt. Not in a coffin. But in the thick, suffocating dark that fills your lungs with the ghosts of your own heartbeat. Every breath tastes like death. You aren't breathing. You're decaying.

The worst part? You don't even know when it started. Was it yesterday? Last year? Or is it the moment you realized you weren’t supposed to be alive at all?

No one tells you what happens when the soul turns into a carcass. When your bones are the last memory of a life that never had meaning to begin with. When your heart no longer beats for anything, but just waits for the moment it will stop.

That’s the hollow. The black void inside you, that eats everything it touches— it doesn't just devour your joy. It kills your ability to care that you’re dead. You don't mourn. You don't scream. You don't even cry, because you don't even feel. You know you're dead. But you don't care enough to stop living.

Imagine living like that. A body that’s rotting. A mind that’s unmade. And no one can hear your screams because your voice stopped working when the hollow took over.