My son, Thomas, never had a shortage of friends. Always the class clown, always the likeable, relatable, funny goof that he was. He passed away, 2 months ago, he jumped off an overpass and landed on his neck. He was 17. And I’m writing this for him, because he wanted me too.
I know a lot of you know about the internet and the dark web and all of that. The thing is, I didn’t, and maybe if I had, my son would still be alive. Please, stay off of the dark web.
The game is called Veritatem Dicere, and I’m an american english speaker, but I believe it means something along the lines of “tell the truth” in latin. I only began to notice things after his last few months. Troubles at school, which he never had. He sat behind a girl in his class and cut a chunk of hair off her head. He was suspended. I would look through the history on his computer to find violent videos, people being murdered and sodomized. Video after video. White powder substance all over his room. Salt lining his windows.
\We took him to the dentist because of an infection on one side of his mouth. The dentist examined him and pulled me aside to let me know my son had pulled out and crushed three teeth in his mouth himself.
The last straw was when I caught him in the bathroom about two months before he died. He was carving some sort of symbol into his arm on a livestream. I figured his odd behavior must be a cry for help, thinking maybe he was depressed or suicidal. He was hospitalized for a week and then released. Two weeks later, my son died.
A month before my son died, every person in my family received an email. Each one read:
“Ask Thomas about the little girl who died down the street. Ask him what he knows. Make him tell the truth.”
The email came from an anonymous sender, and when confronted with it, Thomas began to get nervous and visibly sick.
“Who sent it Thomas? I want to know. If this is some sick prank to scare your little sister, it’s not funny.” I leaned against the counter and crossed my arms, the email pulled up on the laptop in front of my son. He kept his head low, avoiding eye contact with me, staring at his fingers in his lap.
“I don’t know what it is mom. Probably some spam email or something.” He muttered, almost looking up at me, but quickly averting his gaze.
“A spam email that happens to have your name in it and information on the crime committed down the street a few weeks ago? I don’t think so.” I glanced at the screen for a moment. “So… do you know something you’re not telling your father and I about this?” I said, looking back at him again.
“...No.” Tears welled up in his eyes as he stared at the computer screen. “I don’t know anything.”
“What is going on with you Thomas? This is so unlike you. Please, if you’re not okay, please just tell us, we want to help you. We want our Tom back.” I put my hand on his, but he pulled away quickly and wiped his eyes quicker.
“I don’t know anything mom, I already told you. I’m fine.” He got up abruptly and started towards the doorway. Now I could feel the tears begin to form in my eyes as I saw him walk away. My son was almost unrecognizable. He was skin and bones, purple bags under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days. His clothes hung and bagged on him as I saw him walk to the door.
“I love you.” I squeaked out. He stopped for a moment and looked back at me, and I swear to god, I’d never seen more pain in someone’s eyes than I saw in his in that moment. He let a tear fall as he turned away again, his back to me now.
“I love you mama.” He croaked out before exiting the room quickly.
He began to look worse as time went on; thin, frail, tired, fatigued. My husband and I found therapists, took him to doctors, pulled him out of school, and did everything we thought was right leading up to my son’s suicide.
About a week after his death, I felt like half of me was missing. I couldn’t move or talk or get out of bed, and I didn’t. All I could do was think about Thomas, and the guilt ate me alive. I knew my email had to be overflowing with emails from clients at work, and I knew I’d have to get back to work soon. For me, for my husband, for my daughter.
Two weeks later I finally checked it. At the very top of my inbox was an email with an anonymous sender and no subject. I began to tear up, wishing whoever it was would just leave me alone and let me grieve. But, curiosity got the better of me and I opened it. I wish I hadn’t. The email was nothing but nine black words that read:
HE DID IT AND THE GAME IS NOT OVER.
Source: https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/esigqd/my_son_was_involved_in_a_suicide_game_on_the_dark/