An explosion like the crack of doom flooded my senses with horror. First, the sound, the horrid sound, then, the sight, the blood-stained jaw lying four meters from its owner. The smell of gunpowder and blood. The feeling coursing through my body, fear. And last, last, the taste of blood in my mouth, but not my blood. After the undead ascend, it is my turn to feed. After my sin, the repercussions assault me, and they leave me to wallow in guilt, my guilt.
I'll always keep my conscience intact, through all the misdeeds, my murders, the slaughter. The undead beckon and I grow hungry. I'm restrained in the day, by my prison of sunbeams. I am not a vampire, I am their servant. Servitude to the blood-suckers of the night is a sorry excuse for a life. My job, the horrid task set before me, is to supply nourishment for the servants of moonlight. I've been a beast, created by sin, for fifteen years. Created by satanic rituals never written down because of the morbidity of the act. I am a beast, the reconstruction of past hellish experiments, designed to be obedient, and to be the perfect hunter. I am the Punisher, I am the scavenger, I am... the perfect servant.
My creator was a 3000 year-old killer, the original model of the servant. He was known as the Angel of Death, the Grim Reaper. Now after 2784 years of failed experimentation, he has created perfection...me.
My first duty was as a simple...child, but soon I had cravings. Cravings for human flesh. The first one was a weak, old, fool of a man, leathery and unappetizing. Slowly, I began to progress upward to children, adults, and finally whole families. I am not a cannibal, for I am not human. I've tried many methods to supply my ever growing hunger, stabbing, poisoning (which left me sick), and many other conventional methods. Then I discovered ballistic projectiles, guns. Lead was, and is, nourishing to me and bullets were quick to kill.
Three years and 215 murders later, they came for me. I was feeding on a family of four, or what was left of them. I was just picking the last hanging bits of muscle and skin off the youngest child's bones. It was a baby, my dessert, always a treat because of the softness of their skin. The remains of the family were lying scattered throughout their home in pools of blood and the juices in the human body. They descended silently, smiling in grim fashions, disturbing me to my very soul. They cam to me and took me, and I went without a word, silently accepting fate. And then they taught me, they taught me to kill, to be merciless.
For fifteen years I've served faithfully, never questioning Their will. I fight the insanity that draws me in like a black hole to freedom. Ahh, sweet freedom, how I long for it. I live in a cave of sorrow and self-pity, littered with the souls of my victims. They are the thousands of wispy, faded, poor recollections of their former selves. They taunt me and spill their misery on my shattered self like wave after wave. I replay murders in my head; May 1867, young male and fiancée, method of murder: male-skinned alive, female-eyes torn out and brain sucked out of empty sockets. Then November 1862, general of Russian rebel forces, method of murder: ripped limb form limb by wild boar. There are countless others, slaughters and massacres preformed with brutal efficiency.
My masters praise me gallantly, telling me I'm cunning, savage, and efficient. While I may be a monster, I am also an accomplished genetic engineer and inventor. All my weapons are made by hand. I create monsters for my masters to serve their beck and call. And with the hearts of my victims, I create sad and horrible subjects for my masters to tyrannically rule.
I falter out of my thoughts into morbid reality. I can here one coming now, the slight fwip of their wings cutting the air. Fwip. They come with another assignment. Fwip. I have to commit another murder. Fwip. Sometimes, I wish I could escape into insanity. Fwip. But I mustn't, I can't, fwip, if I do, fwip, they will...kill me. Click. Creak. The sound is familiar to me, the quiet sounds of my door being opened. "Stephen, awake, the Lord wishes to see you," Vardlin, my keeper, grunted in his husky way. His eyeless and bandaged face looked at me, a constant reminder of the ferocity of our lord in his fits of rage. I silently stood and followed the old vampire to the throne room. In the center of the cavernous chamber sat Lord Vladsmne, our almighty ruler. Atop his throne of bleached bones, he grunted at me, for he is unable to speak due to the fact that the former lord had ripped his tongue out through his neck. But after years of servitude I deduced what he meant. Kill, kill, kill. That is the only thing he ever said to me, his Royal Advisor, Kalh, gave me my assignment. Victim: Warden of the United National Ground, method of murder: my choice. So on January 13, 1870, I set out to Hyi to kill him. He died like the rest, screaming for mercy. I killed him by taking a simple Blue-Crescent Spider, the last of its kind, the most venomous spider in the world, and dropping it down his throat. Again they swarmed the body like flies on the carcasses of oxen; again I fed on the remains.
I'm slowly losing my mind. I wake screaming in the night. Lose track of time. I've accepted fate. Shredding the walls. Beating the walls. Spectral images haunt me. The images of my victims. I am only 27 years old.
I break the door in a fit of insane rage. SCREAMING! HOWLING! I have become an animal. I streak into the throne room reeking of blood and waste. I lunge at Vladsmne, aiming to rip out his throat. I scream the scream of a creature tormented and vent my rage upon him. But he will not die. I am pulled off of him by the Royal Guard, yet I break free of my captors' grasp and attack again. I have gone berserk. Then all is black.
I awake to the sound of...nothing. It haunts me, for even in the quietest parts of the castle there is noise. I drift out again. In and out of consciousness. Voices, quiet, voices again. I come too finally to find myself in the throne room. I am surprised to be alive, I try to think but only the lowest forms for cognition are in my grasp. Blackness.
I awake screaming; I've ripped my hair out and torn large chunks of skin from my body. I give into the freedom. Good-bye.
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