The Darkness was beautiful. My hands of Light couldn't help but reach, the coronas of my fingertips just teasing the edge of the midnight mess, the chaotic perfection, the forbidden black. The Darkness edged forward, swirling, eager. Beautiful.

Always before, I'd pulled back. I knew better. The Dark is dangerous, my father said. The Dark is deception, my mother warned. The Dark is... Here, they would eye each other, an unspoken word between them. I burned to know what mystery lay in that last descriptor; I burned brighter than the world of Light that I lived in. But there was no way to know. No way short of finding out myself.

Never touch the Dark, they would finish.

And always before, I'd listened. I might journey to the edge of the Light, but so did many other younglings—though perhaps not as often. I might stare into that velvet abyss, but staring wasn't wrong—and the Dark deserved to be admired. I might wonder about the Darkness, might long to know what would happen if I reached out and grabbed it, if I held the perfect, swirling ink in my hand...

But there was no evil in wondering.

And yet—and yet! The mystery burned deep in my heart, the desire saturated my soul, the necessity of knowing set every inch of the Light that lined my body to wavering.

The Darkness was beautiful. It danced, cavorting toward me, begging to be my partner. Always before...

And yet, if we do what we always have done, then the future is nothing but the past...

I wasn't sure where the thought came from, but it settled sure and heavy in my mind. Light never wavered. Light never changed. And yet Darkness... the Darkness spiraled, swirled, danced, lived. I loved the Darkness in that moment; I loved it better than the Light.

I thrust my hand into the Dark.

It felt cool, sliding, soft against my skin. And where the Darkness touched, Light dissolved, drenching my hand in beautiful black. The black flowed up my wrist, and I watched its slow progress, marveling. My hand was beautiful, my hand was Dark, my hand was—

Not my own.

Horror destroyed all wonder, and I yanked my arm back. As I held my black, black hand in front of my glowing face, dread filled my heart. "What have I done?" I whispered.

The Light of my left hand was gone. Extinguished. Lost.

Forever.

Terrified, I ran home, stumbling, crying, tripping through the golden streets of the Light. I'd turned my back on the Dark, and yet—

And yet, now, I took it with me wherever I went. The Dark was my hand, my hand was the Dark, and the Darkness had killed my Light, my beautiful, sweet, innocent Light...

"Daddy!" I shouted, throwing the front door open. He hurried into the room, and I barreled into him, burying my face in his chest, crying. "Daddy, fix it. Fix it, please. Fix it."

We have fixed everything, child...

The voice—the voice—

It was not my father's, and I jerked away. My father was black. Not beautiful black, but black like death, black like nothing, black like—

The Dark.

He had no Light, and when he looked at me in our shining home, he looked at me with eyes that were not his own.

I screamed, but a sinuous whisper filled my mind. Fear not, child. All is as it should be...

The voice—the voice of the Dark.

I stumbled back and ran into the wall. The Dark swirled up its surface, and I called out, pulling my hand away, but it was too late. The Dark continued, stealing the Light of my home wherever it touched, stealing the Light of everything wherever it touched.

Isn't this what you wanted, child? The beautiful Dark? Yes. Yes...

I stare from my bedroom window. Below me, the city is oily, crumbling blocks. Shadowy shapes shamble through the dead streets. For as far as I can see, everything is lost, everything black, ugly, undulating Darkness.

I am Its child now. The only one it kept.

A spark catches my eye. On the windowsill wavers a tiny Light, a beautiful brightness in my black domain. I stare at it, eyes wide. It's not the first time it's happened, but I can never wrap my mind around how it's possible. It bobs and flickers, my heart fracturing further with each shifting form. An impossible, pointless spark is the only company to greet me, this hybrid I am, this mockery of Light and tool of Dark. My own Light quivers with hopelessness, but my blackened left hand hangs perfectly at rest. It is still the only bit of Dark to me, the rest yet untouched. It is enough.

I know now what my parents so sweetly didn't tell me. The Dark is dangerous. The Dark is deception.

The Dark is death.

I reach out, and my left hand caresses the Light. With a whisper, it fades to black just like everything else.