I don’t remember ever getting bitten. It’s just something that’s always been. I feel the detachment from the soul as if it were a tangible thing. As I walk by mortal citizens everyday, I feel their body and soul connection still strong with them; they, unaware of the privilege of their normalcy, living in their self inflicted stresses and trivial discourses; accomplishing some sort of awkward continual movement, a carrying of a torch with no flame that will be passed on to some newly paved sewer system on the north side of town.
I feel them seeing me. Perhaps they don’t but that is what it means to be in “the curse.” I don’t thirst for their blood as most have come to believe. Oddly, your literature has vastly underestimated the severity of the evil that accompanies “the curse.” It’s not one of bloodlust and satisfaction in the death of another. On the contrary, the blood that is continually pulling those with “the curse” is one that cannot be found; yet the hunger for it never ceases. That is the blood I desire: a blood unexplainable, incomprehensible, and yet never yielding its grip.
I want to believe that the memories of life outside of “the curse” are real. I often attempt to recall a childhood in which my soul and body were one; a life with a definite enough body of land to walk upon. But, the inability to establish these recollections as concrete is yet another branch of the affliction that is “the curse.” The more I attempt to remember a reality beyond “the curse,” the more fictitious that reality seems.
And I don’t remember getting bitten. But, if I did, then I could conclude that I was not plagued by “the curse.” A true evil is not one that is easily recognized. And this evil is of the truest nature. It’s easy to associate my affliction in story as glossy, white-fanged, hypersexual, attractive demons with very defined weaknesses. It’s much harder to suspect the overweight, ugly, or unconfident. But a true evil has no power if it is easily recognized. No, there is no suspicion directed at the overweight, the ugly, or the unconfident. The lack of suspicion brings an inviting calm. And in this inviting calm we feed. But we do not drink of the physical blood, we eat of the soul. And we never overindulge, no, we only wound the soul to such a crippling state that it is unrecognizable. And, though we eat, we never satisfy.
We are not harmed by the sun, or holy water, or the sight of crosses. No, those definite afflictions would draw attention to our state. On the contrary, we are drawn to images of the cross and then forced to struggle with our unfulfilled desire for the justification of the soul, being contrasted by our souls devoured by “the curse.” And it is our affliction to relate our origin somehow to our doing despite even the memory of how we came to be under “the curse.” Our souls are clothed in guilt from head to toe. The garment reeks and drags for many miles behind.
I remember realizing my state. I remember the desire for tears and the empty return. Emotion is a luxury orchestrated by the soul.
I don’t remember ever getting bitten. However, I do remember immersing my invisible fangs in many a soul. I remember the slow trickle of blood, beginning ever so slightly as they leave my company and gradually develop into a crippling river. They were not strangers.
I have not wandered the earth to reach a new peak to place my burning torch. I have not assembled an army to march with me into some holy war. No, my path is ridden with blood and weighted and clothed in “the curse.”
Occasionally, there are those that resist me. These souls are wise. They recognize the affliction that is before them. Although never immediately, no, none are that wise. Instead, they are first caught in the charm of “the curse” but alarmed at the subtle teeth on their neck. These are few: those who craftily escape my grasp. It is these few that “the curse” within me finds terrifying. It plagues me with their thoughts and their intentions, whether true or fictitious. It is these that I cannot escape, no matter how few they may be in number. It is these that war within me and pain me endlessly. Yes, it is they whom my detached evil soul finds threatening. For it is they that understand the unknowable. It is they that can relieve me. And in that, “the curse” reacts. It screams deafening tones when in they are near. It is debilitating to the point of the ceasing of thought.
Yet in the depths of my warring soul, I seek them. If there is hope of a cure, it lies in them. Faith is foreign to me, so I methodically arrange myself to fit in their company.
But, alas, even this is “the curse.” With every encounter I have, I feel the wall grow thicker around me. The hope itself is a delusion created to torment me further. I will not lead an army to plant a great torch upon the highest peak. No, I will take this mass of afflicted souls with me to the grave.
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