Smitten With the Bitten

I'm not sure how to recollect my story and put it down on paper. When I think of the events consciously, they become a blur of color with sharp noises and rings. Almost as if not supposed to remember. But then, when the memories bubble up from the back of my brain, it's then that they become clear. Crisp. Clean. No sloppy details. Almost pristine as if they need me to remember, no want me to remember. But when the memories come roaring back, it feels like my head is splitting, my body aches. My eye sockets itch and burn with pure fear. And it hurts horribly. The madness contained in the dark recesses of my cranium does not wish to be silenced. It wishes to be known. For the bitten are among us, roaming. They hide themselves in plain sight. As I recollect my story, I wish to tell you one thing. At one point, I was innocent, but now, I'm a monster.