I don’t enjoy it.

The work is tedious, messy, and gruesome. All I have going for me is a strong gag reflex, and good intentions.

I used to blame it on the devil, labelling it a curse and screaming at the world for casting it onto me. Each time I make a kill, guilt courses through every corner of my body, an overwhelming pain strikes the side of my head as if prodding at me to stop. As the last breathe leaves their lips a sliver of my soul breaks off and is never returned. I whisper an apology under my breathe to every victim, they didn’t deserve it, but then again, I didn’t deserve this.

It’s all torturous to admit, still my hunger takes over my morals and seemingly my entire body when my eyes fall onto my next meal walking through the streets.

The weather summons goosebumps onto my pale arms, a small sacrifice for all the advantages this season brings. Winter gifts me long nights and frigid short days, meaning more time to hunt with the veil of darkness as my disguise, serving as a cloak of invisibility.

I find my eyes trailing a lean female with a beautifully patterned coat and almost sassy strut. A charisma that draws me in, and begins to brings curiosity to my thoughts. I wonder if she has family who will miss her, friends who will grieve.

I take a hesitant step forward, branches breaking under the soles of my shoes. My victim heads towards an empty alley directly towards my left, raising my hopes along with my appetite.

When she reaches the entrance, I find myself only feet away from her reach, her smell piercing my senses. It clouds my thoughts and my vision is overtaken by my growling stomach, at this moment remorse is no longer a threat. My hand trails over the merciless knife in the back of my pants readily, the ghost of its victims seem to haunt to air.

Before I am aware, my dubiousness catches up to me, and two sapphire eyes catch mine as I crouch behind the snow coated bushes. My blood turns cold and my heart is now racing against time, my hands grasping the knife and pulling it before me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

But before I can lunge at her, I find her on top of me, a knife gripped in her fist. I see her arm come down and something sharp piercing through my skin. My vision blurs and loud scream escaped my mouth, as a warm liquid trickles down my chest. Pure agony.

When I open them again my victim, is sitting before me, eyes glued to the floor with a silver knife in her shaking hands. I feel my self fading, the pain becoming numb. This is how my victims feel.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I’m like this,” she chokes out, meeting my eyes.

“I’m just so hungry, and you looked so good.”

Fear of the dark is sparked by the fear of the unknown.

It’s a match waiting to lit by a sun in the morning, or the ignition of the candle by your nightstand.

Fear of the night is fear of the darkness. Vulnerability clouding you as you fall prey to the black veil around you.

Yet here lies an emotion the darkest of them all.

Leaving you torn brittle broken... melancholy, is what it’s called.

Melancholy is the darkness inside your soul, where it’s always night in your heart.

It’s not like anxiety.

It’s not the fear of every simple movement a stranger makes near you.

But rather a unforgiving curse where fear of yourself, of loving, of fighting, of living turns into resentment of what’s listed above.

Where one ultimate shadow creeps over every corner, and every sliver of light.

Whispers in your head work as the devils advocate, tormenting and prodding until you begin to question if it’s worth awaiting the sun in the morning.

When all your doing is not living, but just... existing.

Your simply an empty canvas, palette filled with heartbreak,

What color will it be today? Sorrow, pain, or heartache?

Paint me with one two or three, or all of the above. For feeling pain or feeling sorrow is better than being numb.