I feel sorry for them. I really do. But I can’t help it. I wish I could. But I can’t.
The lack of medication doesn’t help. I haven’t slept well since they stopped the Aconitum.
I don’t remember how I became like this. Sometimes it feels like I was born tormented.
Light is cowardly and runs at the sight of shadows, shadows that form and breed like twisted puppets. And from their blackened swirls and patterns, if you look carefully, you see mistakes and sometimes the odd formation of regret. Most nights I just sit and stare at these shapes the darkness brings out. Waiting for the moon.
And by morning, if I’m lucky, all I remember is being wrenched from my horrific dream. The light returns renewed and strengthened at dawn as I rise, naked and terrified. I stare with foolish hope at the mirror. Hoping something has changed overnight. That perhaps the curse has lifted.
A dirty hand claws at my bloodstained face. The reflection stares back with cruelty and pity. It always does. ‘I’m sorry but you deserve this, you really do.’ it says. ‘I know.’ I say, what else is there left to say? What hope does a condemned creature have of living a normal, happy life?
My scraggly hair demands to be cut, but I’m unable to do it neatly and often end up looking like a wild, mange-ridden dog. My brows have grown too long. I splash cold water onto my face, droplets settle in the scars outlining of my cheeks. Before I know it the basin drips with blood. The blood is mine. The mirror is cracked. Sometimes it’s like that. Sometimes I only realise what’s happened after the event. With no memory of the act.
After a breakfast consisting of a rare steak and some eggs, I brave a stroll around Talbot Park. Early morning joggers run past businessmen who smile at mothers walking their children to school. A terrible picture of commonplace contentment I can never be part of anymore.
My bandaged hands pull my hood closer. I loathe myself, loathe the skin I’m in. I am ashamed of anybody looking at this face, a face battered and scarred by unquenchable desires; ashamed for anybody to witness the lonely fire that simmers in these yellowing eyes. Such people would never understand the tortuous desires that burn.
I bury my face deeper into my fur-lined hood. I regret stepping out as I always do and make my way back home where I sit and wait for shadows to form; for the moon to release me back into the freedom of my horrific dream.
They say the only way is to find somebody who truly loves you and beg them to release the pain. But I don’t think I’m capable of love anymore. All that courses through these veins now is a murderous lust I cannot control.
Some say a silver bullet to the heart will kill the curse too. But who will pull the trigger and release me?