My fingers cracked and bled black. My nails stained. My voice echoed when I spoke, like I was no longer entirely here.
I tried to fix it all. I drew everyone I'd lost. Everyone hurt. And it worked… for a while.
Until the sketchbook began to draw on its own.
New horrors.
New deaths.
It didn't need my hand anymore. Just my blood.
And finally… the ending appeared.
The last page.
A panel of me, sitting in my room.
Surrounded by blank paper.
My eyes hollow. Skin pale.
And a speech bubble this time:
"I drew the end of everything."
Then came the final panel:
A black square.
With one word:
REPEAT.
I looked up.
The door to my room was gone.
The walls were paper.
Drawn.
Ink started seeping down from the ceiling.
And in the mirror… the Inker was back.
Smiling with my face.
And now you've read it too.
The story has you.
The pages are already turning.
THE END
(…until you turn the page.)