Work Text:
I am a freak, with a humanoid body, though it is barely familiar to something alive. I stagger around in the shadows of what can hardly be called a home, never daring to venture out into the light. I hold a fear of what those living beings would think and say if they saw me- Chunks missing, gouged out, ripped off. I am something that has been torn apart and been put back together, given a chance of life after death that I never wished for. But now, I cannot die. I will wither and starve, with no appetite, but the only ending I can imagine facing would have to be an accident, or an act of malice.
I cannot look at myself in the mirror. There is no reflection of a person to be seen. There is nothing that could reflect an accurate image of me. But I know what I look like. Haunted eyes, sunken into dark bags. Limp and dull hair, long fingernails at the end of my shaky hand. Skin so pale that it proves I’m a ghost. And an uneven, crooked posture, that presents my uneven, crooked body. Whatever muscles and bones I have left do not work as they would for anyone else. My body is weak, and betrays me, and it’s all my fault. I can see my ribs, poking through my skin, which is not how they are supposed to be. But they beg to be ripped out, missing the feeling that they still remember. I wish I could hide them, but instead, I am starving. Nothing appeals to me anymore.
What a terrible thing it is, to eat. The thought of food sometimes makes my stomach turn. How selfish it is, to eat. On my worst days, the thought of meat makes me sick. I keel over, clutching my side, wishing that I never had to eat again. It’s something that I hate, yet think of over and over and over. It’s a cycle. It goes on and on and doesn’t end and the cycle won’t ever end until the day that I’m finally dead for good.
And that’s what I think of most of all- Death. Something that I’ve embraced before, only to be pulled away from in such a cruel and violent manner. I should’ve died, and then I wouldn’t be so tainted. Not that I was pure before, and not that I want it to matter… But to be as I am is the greatest sin of all. No matter whose fault it was, I have rejected the gift of death.
I fear for my sins and live in nothing but regret. But I do not pray. I reject the old religion and recoil at its mention, as if the mere thought of it strikes me and burns. It scares me more than it should. I can say that I don’t care for it all I want, but it takes up my mind. I hope that when I properly die, there is nothing waiting for me. But if there is something, then it couldn’t be merciful. Or else it wouldn’t have let any of my scars happen to me. It won’t take pity on me. It won’t forgive me. Maybe the thing to tip the scales will be that I don’t beg for it. I fear the heavens more than I fear the devil.
As much as I wish for the end, I worry and fret that there will be a price to pay. But it’s not my fault, not entirely. It is, though. It is my fault. And this is how I spend my nights. Thinking and thinking and thinking. I lie awake all night and sleep sporadically throughout the day. I talk to no one, go nowhere, do nothing of importance. I just think and think and think. I am sick and lonely but do nothing to cure my disease. I am hurt and broken but do nothing to heal. I am a freak of the night that never should’ve existed. Casually, accidentally, killed, and taken apart and put together wrong, missing more pieces than before. Quiet and pale and wailing at night. Hiding in the shadows and wasting away forever. I’m a monster, a ghost, a real vampire.