Evanescent

- Chapter 1 -

The Darkness

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Song:
Who is She? - I Monster

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I live every single day in black and white. Every vision a blur, every sound white noise. Every day is so ordinary, so routine, so monotonous. Every day is so empty, tasteless. Every day I wonder what my purpose is. There's absolutely nothing keeping me here. I have no friends to call on, no family that would grieve me. I'm truly alone in this world. It's not like this world would even miss me. I was born wrong. Dirty. Evil. I feel nothing, yet I feel everything. Drowning and suffocating. Thick chains tied to my ankles pulling me down, a wire noose around my neck suspending me. Every day I get up and stare into the mirror, asking my reflection why it's there. All it does is stare back at me, mocking me, asking me the same. I stare for hours sometimes. My hands are marked with scars from trying to make it disappear. Bruises of different aged stages coast along my body, if I close my eyes, I can almost picture the slow honied consistency of blood running down my body, slick like viscus oil. Except no matter how many times my body is marked, or blood is sprayed on me my mental curse won't let me see any ranges of the hues. No matter how loud I yell, or they scream, it only sounds like tv static. Nothing brings me satisfaction. Nothing is vibrant enough to clear out the fog billowing in my fucking head. My mind is slowly being ravaged by insanity. I know this. I'm torment incarnate. Sin. Regrettably, every day after I awake, and the routine starts over. Every day I get closer to doing something to change that... to end that. To find something that will make me feel something, so that I can finally feel nothing.

The only time I know that I'm alive is when I'm snuffing out someone else's light. I've gotten into bit of a bad habit of that lately. I know I'm escalating, similar to chasing a high, just waiting for a release. A rubber band to snap. The ball to hit the floor. I should be proud that I've started to make the news, similar fucked up people who has been in my... career choice seems to revel in it. I thought that it would excite me or give me some sort of thrill but it fucking doesn't. I stop by the bright light of the TV that's playing the local news, the glow of the TV illuminating the dimly lit street. This investigator, Detective Cole, is starting to piss me off. He gets on the TV and makes grandiose statements, like that he's begun working with the FBI to create a character analysis of me, making promises to the grand city that he will put an end to the serial killer that's stalking his streets. I can't help the slight chuckle that comes out more like a huff. When the hunter becomes the hunted. He's a pompous prick. He's no different from everyone else, looking down on me, and it's pissing me off. If I wasn't hoping that this game that we're playing may give me some sort of satisfaction, then I would just kill him off as well. I start to walk off when the newscaster starts to go into detail some other fucking bullshit that doesn't matter. Boring. Everything is just so fucking boring.

I retrieve my hands from my pockets to pull the edges of my hood flush against my ears, trying to do a better job of concealing the frosty wind from nipping at my ears... with the added benefit of hiding myself from all of the milked faces of the passersby's who pass past me trying to avoid me. Do they see through me? Can they smell the rot that's coursing through my blood? I'm shuffling through the muddy snow, my thick boots making a satisfying crunch with every step I take down the hardly lit city sidewalk. I glance over my shoulder at the woman who pushes past me laughing on the phone, her long colorless trench coat swaying in the gusts of wind carrying on like I wasn't even there. Maybe I'm a ghost. A demon. No matter how long I tried to study her features in those spare seconds they resembled an oil painting that had been blurred by someone's hand. I think maybe she made some sound that could've been her cussing at me, but I don't give a shit. I can't remember the last time that someone's face was memorable enough for my conscious to put in the effort to even try to recognize it. My mind wanders, trying to decide that if I followed her down the dark alley that she just crossed into behind me, and if I cracked her skull open, could I see the color of her thoughts? Would she apologize to me then? Do thoughts, or apologies, come in color?