The Consumer

This life has been pleasant, though I have waisted most of it in my endless search for warmth within my chest. From my first memory I have craved this warm light that could appear inside me. If I consumed certain foods emotions drugs etc. something would grow to fill the emptiness within me. From as early as I can remember, this bottomless void has lingered beneath my skin, occupying my chest cavity—not quite where the heart belongs, more like my whole chest. Once, I imagined it was warm and substantial. I lack the words to describe what this feeling is. It encompasses warmth, light, and colorful tones, bringing love, humility, empathy, and a hint of total satisfaction.
As a child, I sought anything resembling this light—initially through romantic encounters, hoping those I met could offer me their light. Their love was something I quickly drained sometimes within weeks. There were those who would try their hardest to help, giving all in the end. I turned early to drugs as substitutes, consuming any chemical or plant that temporarily altered my perception. Anything that kept me from feeling the cold breeze coming from my chest. The emptiness, was a reality I feared and dared not to face if possible.. I consumed light and warmth from every outlet I discovered. Yet t it never lasted. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't hold it within. I intoxicated myself until my body could no longer bear the drugs, pushing the limits of mortality while seeking light from every possible source.

Over time, I've become better at identifying how to keep this craving at bay. Sometimes, the light would fade for a day or a week, but it was always diminishing. I could consume galaxies and still I would gorge. When it reached its lowest point, there was a cold wind, a vast cave spiraling from the core of my being into an endless void of nothingness. It was an endless, hollow emptiness—cold dark and lonely, yet strangely alluring, enticing me to dive in. The urge is powerful, but it terrifies me, so I consume. Light is my drug, my nourishment, my sustenance, and I would kill for it. Over the years, I've left endless souls withered and hollow along my path, extracting every warm spark they held within until they became the dust which now stains my boots.

I don't think I'm a bad succubus, and neither should you. I'll love you to death if you give me a chance. I wish I were different, but this is who I have always been. Is it a sin to survive, to eat, to consume? I've run from my nature since birth, not wanting to be this being, yearning and hoping I wouldn't have to consume to live. I tried not consuming, that is just not an option—it would be a far worse existence than being a succubus. What tomorrow holds is uncertain; all I know is that tonight it's cold, it's getting dark out, and I'm hungry.