Misery's Child

Chapter 2: ChatGPT Rewrite

Once upon a time, there was a Demon named Misery — one who fed upon the darkest thoughts of humankind.

It is said that the only way to defeat Misery is to hold fast to a single good thought, warm and comforting enough to chase away sorrow and fear.

For this reason, Misery preyed only upon those with few good memories — those too empty to resist its grip.

One day, the Demon stumbled upon a young girl from whom it could sense... nothing at all. No joy, no grief, no memory, no fear.

This was so strange that Misery had to reveal itself. For Demons and Spirits — whether wicked or kind — are ever-curious things.

“Little girl, little girl,” Misery asked, startled that she did not flee from its fearsome form, “why are you so empty? Little girl, little girl, why do I sense nothing from you?”

“I do not know, I do not know,” replied the girl, sitting calmly in a bush. “I do not know anything at all.”

“Little girl, little girl,” the Demon pressed, growing more curious still, “where is your mother? Little girl, little girl, where is your father?”

“I do not know, I do not know,” she said, rising to her feet. “I do not know anything at all.”

“Little girl, little girl,” Misery sang as he followed, for the girl now danced through the trees, “how did you come to be? How did you come here?”

“I do not know, I do not know,” she called back, twirling along the path. “I do not know anything at all.”

“Little girl, little girl,” Misery asked again, paying no mind to where they walked, “where is your memory? What is your name?”

“Oh, that’s easy, that’s easy!” the girl laughed, her eyes alight. “My name is Memory — and I’m right here!”

Too late, Misery looked around — and found itself trapped in a circle of stone.

The girl opened herself like a box unlocked, and all the best memories of men, women, children, and beasts came pouring out. 

The Demon fell to its knees as joy, love, laughter, and light filled its mind — so bright, so full, so endless. The memories of Spirits and Demons and Gods joined in, until Misery howled in anguish.

And so the Demon was bound in stone, its power lost, its terror silenced. Yet its voice remains, carried on the wind, whispering:

Little girl, little girl, why were you so empty?  

Little girl, little girl, why did I sense nothing from you?

Little girl, little girl, where is your mother?  

Little girl, little girl, where is your father?

Little girl, little girl, how did you come to be?  

Why did you come here?

Little girl, little girl, what are you?  

Little girl, little girl, how did you do this?

And Memory answered:

“I am unknowable unless I choose to be.  

I was born from the minds of all living things.  

Hilarity begged my help, for you were killing her.  

I am a creature of joy and ancient light.  

I am older than you can fathom, Misery.”

Then, no longer a girl, the being transformed—into something vast and unspeakable, a shape the mind cannot hold. To look upon it would unravel reason.

It shed one shining tear upon the stone that bound Misery, and where the tear fell, a silver key was left behind—just in case the Demon’s soul ever turned to good.

And let this be both a lesson and a warning:

Do not trust the weak to be powerless.  

Do not follow the harmless, assuming they cannot harm.  

Do not mistake your prey for your prize —  

For you never know what face they wear beneath their mask.