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 Nothing ever makes sense anymore; tomorrow melds into today and yesterday, and last week and a month from now. Monday is Sunday, is Friday, is Thursday and Halloween and Christmas. Winter becomes Fall and onto Fall is Summer which drowns in spring showers again, still holding on to Winter. Time was as one giant mass that never ends and never changes, predictable and inevitable in its cycle of life and death.
When I was young time loomed over me, filling me with terror and curiosity at the things to come. Now I sit in my chair reading my book by a crackling fire in mid winter, and I’ve been sitting here for three months in complete solitude, locked away from time and place, and Death.
I have no need to eat or sleep, I have no incentive to move and so therefore I’m content to stay where I am. From time to time writing my thoughts down in my small book; given to me by a younger friend of mine, a human boy of twenty one years, he wanted me to write in the little book.
To me this little book holds little value, besides the factor of where it came from. It’s not some secret journal with gossip and dark secrets from years past or time consuming philosophies of ancient knowledge within my mind. No. Just a book to jot down random minded thoughts of my surroundings…
I must sound like a decrepit old man. Sitting in my large easy chair refusing to come out, wasting away at my time of death…
If only. No, I sit here because I see no value in moving, or simply looking out the window to see the weather, or maybe the sky, I have no desire to witness what I have no love for anymore.
I have not seen the sun in a year, I can only imagine how pale I am, how unkempt and dusty I look; I just can’t bring myself to care.
My appearance only truly appeals to others, my boyish looks, my long brown hair, large black eyes that are actually red, and my pale skin. I’m nothing of importance besides my looks really, and without them I fade into the background of this dusty house… like a little girl’s forgotten doll sitting in the corner on the highest shelf.
I’ve always despised this young look to myself, although at the time I had thought it a good idea to stop aging at only fifteen years; mortal time. Now I regret my decision mightily. As I’m usually discarded on a normal basis for my too young appearance, my eyes tell a different story. I’m what some would call ancient, but in reality my age is miniscule compared to my elders’; I’m only around six thousand years of age, which I’m told is pretty young for my race.
I have really lost my taste for life and the tragedies that haunt it. Just as I have lost my human friend long ago and here I sit, perhaps morbidly waiting for some sign of decay or illness to take me. Even if I know no such thing will happen, no matter how I wish it, I can’t help but hope.
I can’t even seem rouse myself enough to end this timeless existence from which I’ve been cursed since my birth and time immemorial... not that’s it possible to do so. <span id="test19974417">. . .</span><br/><div id="post19974417" style="display:none; margin-right:75px;">
I never realized how painful my existence was and I even enjoyed it at one point… until he died that is. My mortal friend lost to the world, brought down by a psychopath much like myself.
Besides the psychopathic part, we were of the same breed.
Now we are not some sort of ‘creatures of the night’, we have no need to stalk unwary victims and lure them to us, like a moth to so many flames… no, we are breed of undying race that has been called many things in the past ages, dynasties and eras.
Though very inaccurate, they’re rather suiting; demon, daemon, tricksters, spirits, poltergeists, etc.
Simple names, so many implications… We are not unlike humans, in our habits, likes, dislikes, our morals are more suited to those of an immortal’s, and our appearance we seem human. I’d like to think we are… but I know humans are more like everything thing else in this existence, they die, grow old and sick simply fade out of existence.
They have one thing we never really possess… I envy it... demons envy it.
We have pale shadows of hope, of joy, of feeling… I almost think we have no soul. Why would we need one when we cannot die? And if we do is there some entity that would gather us to Him like so many children? No, we are the soulless creatures that many people claim to see from time to time wafting in the afterworld of spirits. A world of spirits…. Yes, that sounds fantastical, almost.
Maybe my lost human friend is there, in agony of his unfairly taken life, or maybe he found peace and is with the true Spirit. Who knows, really? How can I know if he is by me right now begging me to look at him to see his suffering and help him? The thought is unbearable.
I think I’m crying.
There is a streak of dirt down my dusty face now; my eyes are becoming irritated and dry.
I can only imagine how he would react to such a thing… my tears and my unkempt appearance. He probably would have scolded me, wiped at my face, dusted me off, and brushed the hair from my eyes. He can’t do that anymore, he can’t do anything… my friend is dead. I could not imagine what that possibly is like if I tried. All I can say is; they stop moving, breathing, and talking, their bodies rot away and they are no more because that is all I can understand.
But then again, who can understand besides those who have already died? Those who have felt those last moments of life? Or are feeling them as I write this?
I don’t know the despair of death, nor does the thought pop into my mind very often, if at all.
That’s probably what was the most shocking about my dear friend’s untimely, and rather brutal, death. I, personally, had no experience with any sort of death of a person who was close to me or who I knew.
I never even considered such a thing, and so I never understood humans or animals, and I never grew close to either.
It was the most horrible realization when I saw his brutalized form, the once smiling face flecked with blood and contorted in utter agony, the rasping of his voice as he struggled to remain awake, how his maimed body writhed on the ground in some depth of a hellish pain of which I shall never know, his torn clothes, all the blood. The blood...
Blood is life, and without it they die.
At first I leaned down and held his arms, trying to calm him to no avail, and then I tried sealing the wounds. But he had already lost too much of his blood, the ambulance would have never made it even if I had known how to call nine-one-one, he died in unbearable pain begging for the end and for me to kill him. I could not. I could not. Horror and horror and horror gripped at me; I was paralyzed looking wildly about for some solution. I came up with nothing and he’s dead now. Now and forever he’s gone from me.
I can’t grasp it… it feels like he can walk through the door right now and start prattling away about nothing important. Couldn’t if he was alive anyway, the door is locked and bolted, sealed up with boards… as are the windows. But this is nonsense.
In truth I miss his presence so terribly I barely have the will for much anymore, but to sit here and use the little black book he gave me. The only gift I ever received from anyone. A birthday present he called it. Birthday…? I remember telling him what the date would be in human measurements of my birth. But the gesture was so odd; I couldn’t stop grinning like a fool. A Birthday Present… That was the inspiration for that strange book of mine. The Writings of a Mad Demon came shortly after. I couldn’t stop laughing when I thought of them, spontaneous as I was. What on earth would this be called if I stuck it in my book? I’ve already alerted others of my withdrawal in the writing world; I’ve lost inspiration. I don’t’ think anyone should like to read this anyway; they’re too used to my upbeat humor, too used to strange fantastical places and people to want something so close to home, so close to death. Not far from reality, tucked in safe havens like books. This is a hell, not a haven. </div>
 Angorez Daemora · Sun May 04, 2008 @ 08:45pm · 0 Comments |
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