Four hundred years is a long time.
Four hundred years is long enough to come to terms with a lot of things. During those four hundred years, there are a lot of long silences wherein you just lay silently, cocooned in some small place where humans can't reached, unbreathing, and you think about yourself. You think about the fact that you are alone here, an alien creature in a world of fragile humans. Your skin starts to bubble and suddenly you're your father, you're your mother, you're the girl you loved as a child, you're the priest from the tall, grand Catholic church that used to exist, but has since been forgotten. You like to lose yourself in others. You like to sit there as your father, hating yourself, knowing with a sick satisfaction that he feels this same way because he made you.
It pounds like a rhythmic mantra in his head. He made you. He made you. He made you.
Four hundred years is long enough that your memories are no longer frantic flashes, shattered images of a lover praying over a broken body. It's long enough that you aren't tortured by the thought of his human memories. Not anymore.
Four hundred years is long enough that you forget the fact that you once called the woman who gave birth to your human body "Mother." The word tastes foreign in your mouth now, as you repeat it in the darkness, under your breath. "Mother. Mother. Mother."
Your mother is no longer your mother, she is now your God. She played God when she dragged your corpse into the bitter winter rain and breathed life into you, just as the Catholic God that they told you stories of breathed life into Adam. Our Savior, our Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, he died for man. When she became God she lost her rights to salvation and that is why she tries so hard to be immortal. Because when she dies, she knows where she is going.
And I know where I am going. Christ died for man. I have not been a man in four hundred years. Four hundred years is long enough to come to terms with that.
Four hundred years is long enough that jealousy festers within you and, in an explosion of fury and envy, you decide you hate the world because they get to die.
The thing whose name was forgotten kills a man, and he watches, a green-eyed monster, as the man falls and his eyes dull.
He's not even a god, like his Master, because even Christ died, in the end. And that only took thirty years.
Four hundred years is a long time.