H A U N T E D

f o r t y - s i x

f o r t y - s i x

Jack Cullen has been traveling this world for nearly six-hundred-and-seventy years. Nineteen years of those centuries were spent with a beating heart and a taste for adventure and mischief. It was the daredevil in him that made him exactly that - the devil. Unlike a few of his adoptive siblings, Jack never held resentment towards himself for being what he is - a murderous monster who naturally held little sympathy for human life. He embraced this lifestyle and tried to live life to the fullest, even with its limits. He was able to travel the world and discover places that still left him in awe, even after a few passing years. He enjoyed seeing past the borders that limit humans from seeing deeper. He enjoyed being able to dive into the ocean with no fear of being swept away to sea. He loved being able to jump so high, from the tallest mountain, that his fingers skimmed the stars.

Although Jack has always felt comfortable in his steel-like skin, it is his mind that seems to run amok, if he doesn't have control over it. Some days, Jack would find himself locking his bedroom, and sit in the darkest corner of his room, allowing himself to fall back in that same mindset, like the day he woke up in the grave. He found comfort in being sad, like a mother's hug. Carlisle never left him like that for long, and would force his sons to take him out to the ocean, where he'd inhale the salty air that allowed his voice to be his once again.

Esmé calls them his storms, like he should proudly take ownership of these times. As a human, he would saunter around, high on his haughty joy, obvlivious to the pain he caused like a slash in skin. As a human, he was arrogant, and arrogancy can be dangerous. He'd sneer at the grieving widows in his village, their sadness a weakness in his eyes. How foolish of him, to have thought so little of human emotion. Some days, Jack thought that it was his own fault that he felt like this, like a falling glacier that sent sea levels spilling over and causing disasters. He caused many people agony as a mortal, stealing and killing without wondering how he left a void in a living person's life. How much they'd miss the dead.

As an immortal stuck in a makeshift grave, it was all he could think about. How he wished that he could spin the sun backwards, tossing it across the sky, shooting it back in time to breathe life into those he cruelly took it from.

The first thing Jack can remember from his first day as an immortal, was the burn of lava being poured down his throat. The strength of a thousand men coursed through him, and he raised his hands to feel his way in the dark. The sudden solidity of iron bars met his hands, and he remembers folding his fingers around the bars. He yelped once he made contact with the cage, a fire similar to the one in his throat.

In the silent darkness, he could not fight against the cage he found himself in. He was half-buried, with hard mud covering half of his grave. Whenever he slammed against the cage, bit of dirt came loose and would fall into his eyes, his mouth. His throat burned as time went by, fleeting. Outside of the grave, he heard the seas roll in, and disappear. People came and went, but he never heard footsteps near him. Afterwards, once he was saved, he realized that it was supernatural hearing that tricked him. All those nights screaming for help, was for naught.

His only company was the faceless man who'd pour droplets of blood down the open bars, that would fall on Jack's lips. His dry tongue would eagerly lick the blood, and the burning would be quenched for a while, before it would start off again. Jack's limbs grew weaker and brittle, and he could no longer find the strength to fight against the bars.

Jack doesn't know when he realized he was caged. Maybe it was when a drawling voice chuckled, like coins in a can, shaking like iron in its ribcage, with each sadistic laugh. It teased him, daring him to escape. It would retell him the story of his rebirth, how he was cruelly taken away from his family, sold by those he thought to be friends. Maybe it was when he saw a small detail in his peripheral vision, which grew as he reminisced about his time as a child, as a pirate, as a killer. Memories became valuable in these times, and he'd press his finger in them, searching for any falsehoods.