Everything I touch dies.

Its what I was made for. My purpose, if you will.

I stand in a cement room, as I do every day, and watch as people are brought in, lined up like cattle for the slaughter. In a perfect world, theres no room for imperfection. I stand at the ready, as a woman in brought infront of me. She is obviously pregnant, holding inside her an unpure being. In a swift move, she falls to the floor, breaking down as her body withers away.

I weep inside. I claw at the walls of flesh im stuck inside, walls I never had the power to control. Why? Why must I be?

I’m taken out and am led back to the jail cell that is my room. The door closes, and I plunge back into the hopless despair that I’ve always known, despair in knowing that I am what is feared. I am The First Horseman, the thing that takes away loved ones too soon, I am