Death’s Gifted Soul: Amara’s Journal – Chapter 1 | A Dark Fiction Short Story of Power, Loss, and Destiny

 

Death's Gifted Soul

In the shifting edges of my dream realm, this chapter from Amara’s Journal joins my collection of dark fiction short stories, where power and loss echo through shadowed worlds.

Dear Diary

My awakening always came like a tide in mid-storm—each wave slamming into me, tearing strips from my heart until I was left raw. In those moments, fear loosened its claws, just enough for me to breathe. And in that breath came the truth—why I had always been the strange child in every room, the one who saw the world through cracks others pretended weren’t there. The world itself had shifted for me alone, and in its shadows, I understood: the darkness would never stop following me. I would always cast its destructive shadow across everything I touched.

Turning sixteen in 1805 was the first time I truly wanted to give up. Ghostly voices—thin as frost, sharp as nails—picked at my mind—one second begging for salvation, then spitting curses when I shut them out. Their noise wound through me like barbed wire, cinching tighter with every plea. Worse than the dead was the evil behind them—the patient malice that tracked my steps and wanted me erased.

Sorrow sat on my chest like a stone slab, pressing the fight out of me. Every day brought some new horror, none brought sense. If there was a name for what held me, no one said it. There was only the drag—round and relentless—pulling me deeper.

Explore more of my dark fiction short stories in Elara’s World to see where Amara’s path will lead.

Memories I couldn’t place haunted me— rings that didn’t fit my fingers, houses I could map room by room but had never walked. Lives piled and warped until the present bent under the weight.

Desperation made me numb—liquor bottles, bad choices, anything to drown the swarm. I circled a date on the calendar like a door out. Even as the ink dried, something in me knew that door didn’t belong to me. Yet still I wanted to claim it.

For three months, I kept the same vigil: back to the slide’s cold spine in an abandoned park, eyes on the scatter of stars. Tonight felt different. I’d stacked my courage piece by piece. I was ready. The whispers arrived on cue—hoarse, eager. They promised an end to the hollowing, a soft fall if I’d only say it. One word and the ache would quiet (YES). Beneath them, another voice—steady, familiar—called me a coward and begged me to stay. Guilt prickled; exhaustion pressed a hand over its mouth.

The stars smeared into pale beacons as my eyes filled. The whispers swelled, thick as mist. I drew a breath to say it—then winter hit me like a wall. Something cinched my throat, and the world tore sideways. Air, blur, impact. Stone met my cheek with a thud that emptied the sky.

When I opened my eyes, panic seized me. I came to in a place that had no sky. Darkness pressed close, relieved only by a thin blue leak of light seeping from cracks in the stone. Shadows stretched endlessly, swallowing up every edge and corner. I stumbled through the cavernous space, and the walls were jagged. I put a hand out and the rock bit my palm. Courage and fear wrestled in my ribs; only the fear had claws. I wanted to be strong, to face this new terror with courage, but the fear gnawed at me, leaving me hollow and trembling.

I tried to keep my face still while panic burned beneath my skin. My heart worked like a hammer against thin fabric. The floor muttered, a low tremor running through the stone as if the world were clearing its throat. Then—eyes. Two blue coals cut the dark and held me where I stood. I made myself stay anyway. I had asked to end this; the place had answered.

A second roar rose and tunneled through my ribs. My legs sparked with the need to run; my body refused. I stood pinned while the dark drew tight around the edges.

It stepped out of the dark—tall, pared down to angles, nothing visible but those two blue points burning low. Ache rippled my bones to the beat of my pulse as the eyes found me. Its stare caught my breath and wound my spine tight, a spring pulled to the last click. Its mouth opened a fraction. The voice that came was old and absolute.

“Breathe.” My lungs obeyed in a rush; I couldn’t stop.

It came on slowly. Each step landed and kept on landing in the hush. The gaze didn’t blink. Its lips held the shape of a word that hadn’t arrived.

“I am...”

Time seemed to fracture, trapping me in the center of a single moment. My breath was all I could hear as it leaned in; the dark leaned with it. Head tilted, measuring my worthiness—was I built for the words that would follow, or not worth the breath it would take? Silence worked its teeth. 

Heat flared in my stomach as I saw it: a red halo beating around the thing, burning the dark thin. Its power caught me like a hundred unseen grips and reeled me in. I stumbled, unable to stop it. I ran its image through the memories of creatures I’d faced before, and none matched. The scale of it stole the room’s air.

Cold blew out of the depths, slapping my skin; my teeth answered with a chatter. The pressure built—thick, absolute—squeezing the breath out and pinning my voice. Its look alone did the work of hands, a relentless force that seemed to demand my submission. Panic curled my fist. I opened my mouth to bargain and felt the clamp on my tongue —no touch, no mercy, just pain.

“Do you believe your life weighs more than millions?” The voice came low and edged, a blade through the cold. It knew I couldn’t answer. “Do not yield to the Dark World. You would be emptied—body left, soul gone. The gate would open. It would take the gifted by the millions and keep them screaming. It would take this world.” The voice thinned and somehow carried more weight. “Amara, your gifts are not for grief. Become the hunter you were destined to be. Remember who you are. And understand that your actions will ripple far beyond your own life.”

Fear and awe ran the same current through me. I don’t know how it pried me open, only that its words struck bone and held. I shook—this time with a will to live. The weight of its message, which I feared might be a death sentence, became a searing injection of life, a fierce clarity, power waking up.

The questions crowded: Why me? When did I become responsible for so many lives? I tried to speak and felt the words stack behind my teeth, caged without a guard. The hold was gone; the silence wasn’t. My thoughts swirled in my head, words not meant to be spoken, I suppose.  Thoughts roared, then cut. The world blinked to black, taking with it my chance for answers.

The park rushed back around me. The dead crowded close, calling my name, listing their commands. I didn’t clap my hands over my ears. I didn’t answer. I only thought, quiet, and they went still. That ability had never been mine before. I shook with curiosity—hollow and lit at once. The hunting dark would not have me. I had a reason to keep fighting now, and I would not fold as easily again.

Across lifetimes, something leaked from the seams of me—fog-thick, binding me to the Dark World. A black field without stars unrolled forever, the quiet so wide it felt like a weight.

Sorrow hung from me like a soaked cloak. Loneliness took my heart in both hands and pressed. I searched the ruin for one thread of identity, some flicker of memory. Only a name rose and kept rising—Amara—drifting between the two worlds like a lantern I refused to drop.

I lived in the seam between two merciless worlds—a poor joke for someone called “gifted” to see and feel beyond the veil of reality. My fate rode me heavy, a sorrow embedded in each sunrise, every dawn whispering of losses yet to come. I could almost hear the faint echoes of unsung lives—loved ones stolen from me before I had the chance to save them.

Life after life, bitterness set like a mineral in the bones, hardening me as I came to accept that, again and again, someone I cherished would be taken. Regret traveled with me, steady as pulse on each long journey. A relentless reminder of those I’d loved and lost across the ages.

The pain of constant loss drew me into isolation. I would not drag another innocent

into my weather. Even so, I couldn’t look away from the lives set in my path. Each memory I reclaimed brought new aches, the emptiness inside threatening to pull me under. And still, I moved forward, compelled by a single, unyielding goal—salvation."

Now I move through crowded streets with my shoulders tucked and my face turned. Though I carry myself with purpose, it’s a thin mask, concealing the restless sea of unfulfilled desires that endlessly churns within me.

I am part of this world, yet I remain apart—a ghostly figure, unseen, slipping seamlessly through the cracks of society. Since childhood, I’ve perfected the art of vanishing, moving undetected down alleys, fire escapes, quiet roofs with quiet precision. I almost master the dark, still learning to lose even what hunts me—and the humans who might be hurt by it. My father made sure I could.

Skill doesn’t soften solitude. Everywhere I look, I’m measured against what I don’t have—brief ties that make a life that remains out of reach. Love, companionship, acceptance—these transient moments will never be mine.

My journal has become my one true companion. It records each life I live, every chapter of my journey, without judgment or leniency. With a bit of magic, it always finds its way back to me, faithfully keeping my past within its worn pages. Through it, I piece together the scars of my former lives, hoping to learn from them and ease the shadows that haunt me. Within those ink-stained pages, I hold my one spark of hope—that someday, perhaps, I will find a sliver of peace in who I am.

If your heart beats for dark fiction short stories that blur the line between worlds, walk further into Elara’s World—Amara’s path has only just begun.

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