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By Smith Machine. Currently under ownership of
Mctoran
I remember the moment I fell from the world, too foolish to understand what I've resigned myself to as the inky atmosphere swallowed me whole.
Time was meaningless, I continued to fall but the sensation of such was absent. No air, no hunger nor thirst plagued me. I imagined that at a later time something would end this misery but the growing pit inside pushed against this notion.
For the first time in this hell, my eyes settled upon a faint light. Spirals of luminescence circled around its radius and reached far out into the void.
This is where my memory fails slightly, from this point on all I can recall is the deafening cacophony of a sort of eldritch gale and the oppressive force pulling me towards itself.
When I woke up, I saw it- this figure that stood thrice my height. Its flesh melded into the world itself, constantly shifting around as this intricate, horrific cadence. In stark contrast, its hands were like a sort of fleshy marble and appeared delicate.
The eye, oh lord, the eye…
I've never experienced any sort of mental evisceration- if I can even refer to it as such, in my entire life. I felt as if I lived through a million lives, each with so many intricate things and trillions of thoughts and feelings that I could not recall if I had an eternity to do so. The sheer magnitude of despair inflicted on me was something never meant for mortals to bear.
By the time the visions had finally left me to my own devices, I realized I could no longer feel my own body, my senses stubbed entirely. What did I do to deserve this? Would the infinite embrace of the void treat been an easier fate to endure?
Every so often, I worry if I'm over-dramatizing this, however, when the warmth returned to my bones was unable to stop the sobs that shook my core.
To this day I haven't left the haven of the Cygnus Archive. I was saved. For what reason? I'll never know. All the faces I have seen haunt me, the faces I see here resemble them too much. I shudder nonstop when they look upon my form and grimace. My flesh feels different, loose-fitting perhaps. I fear I have fallen victim to my own paranoia and delirium. I have changed.
Suffice to say, there is no more joy in this life.
I cannot express enough that what is about to be said is not meant to be taken in a defeatist manner. Do not try to escape the Backrooms. Quite frankly, there is nothing out there except the domain of this being to stumble into with your existence forfeited. This cruel labyrinth is for now and forevermore your home, just as it is mine. I pray every sleeping cycle that I never have to see this thing again.
What I experienced is nothing I'd ever wreak upon anyone, not even my own worst enemy.
Although anecdotal, I know for certain that this particular breed of dread is not entirely my doing. This being emanates a sort of force that strikes reverence into beings in its presence.
To the reader who has gotten thus far, I want to thank you.
For the time I've spent here, I've taken an affinity for painting. Here is my rendition of the being that plagues my nightmares. The Terminus, the end, the beginning, and perhaps beyond. I am for certain this is his name. I clearly remember his name from the moment I woke up and for all intents and purposes, you should know it too.
The Terminus