Diary of a Wraith

A sliver of humanity was our greatest punishment. We could not talk, nor hear, but only write. Writing came to us like instinct, no - like a desire, that needed to be fulfilled. It was a constant reminder of what we lost, and what we had become. The blood from our scraped flesh was our ink, and our fingers a pen. Our sorrow was our words, and the book itself a constant, small reminder of how far we were slipping away from ourselves. Along with knowledge, a simple diary - a white leather one - had been given to me as soon as I had opened my eyes to the void. I knew, as I clutched it with my bony fingers, what I needed to do for the rest of my cold, abysmal eternity.

 ~First Entry~

 I am now tormented, my mind unclear. I do not know my crime, nor my name or even my gender. I can see, yet I have no clear understanding of what's before me. I have been given knowledge that the other foul, dark creatures shrouded in swirls of mist which now surround me have become my kin - my family - in death.

I feel miserable, another grievous torture I must always endure now. Hopelessness is singed into my conscious. But like a burning flame in the empty crevice of where my heart should be, a question forms: Who am I?

 So I write now. I am writing in this damnable book, knowing that I am going to lose myself even more as I continue to fill in the white pages with my own sanguine fluid. What is clear to me is that this will be my fate as I watch the others furiously write in their own diaries. They are mouthless and bodiless; only their skinny arms are shown beneath their blood-splattered cloaks. All of us are hovering aimlessly in the dark sky with our long fingers scraping against the rough pages. None of us have the initiative to look down, to see what's below. Writing is our only task, our only ambition.

I am on my first page, so I am new, which means I do not have much time to find out about who I was. Do I have time? Or will I succumb to the empty pit of my punished soul, forever being nothing but an abhorred being before I can?

My thoughts plague me. As some form of a relief - however ineffective - I look to my right where a genderless wraith is writing, just like the rest of us. I take note that it is not writing, but jotting incoherently. Complete sentences are long gone from its pages, only scribbles. I do not have the emotion of guilt for being nosy, but I am curious.

 I try to open my mouth, but realize I, too, do not have one. I want to speak to it, even as I continue to write as if my existence in death depended on it. I want to wail, to make my presence known, but I cannot.  I couldn't hear it anyway if I had. What have I done to suffer such agony?

Are you okay? I write painfully, giving into my multitude of handicaps. I try to show it, but it does not even take a second to glance at me...as if I am not there.

Frustration sinks in. My fingers are already tired and sore, but I must continue to fill in the pages. I have a throbbing, mental urge to stop.

 No. I need to end this entry. But I need to find out who I was. I must, even if it means taking one drift forward to losing myself after every word I now write. I cannot become like the others who no longer understand nor see what they are writing anymore.

That is my ambition now.

 A/N: Don't know if I will continue this or not, though the positive comments from you fabulous readers is pushing me to make another entry.  Update: Working on next entry!

Previous cover had been made by heytherelondon :)

New cover made by me. First time using Photoshop. >.>