Night.

A shrill scream .And then nothing. Silence. A cold dark hour in the streets of New York City. Thugs and drug dealers roamed the sidewalks and rapists loomed the ally. But you're used to it now.

I'm used to it.

Power. That's what we wished for. We need it to survive. But, not like us freaks. We have nothing. Only us other freaks. Weirdo's. Outcasts. Creatures.

Things.

We are not even needed in this world. Why we were put here, nobody knows. Not even God himself. We are his flaws, his failed models, his imperfections.

Then are we God?

No.

We are the opposite. Demons. We have things that other people don't have. We are feared and avoided. We hunt for survival. And we get away with it. I, myself, wish for redemption, and we know we will be turned away from the Gate. God is ashamed of us.

He's ashamed of me.

Hate burned through my throat as I glared down at my meal. The woman had had a horrible life, and we only hunt those who have wished for death. In that way, I feel closer to God, like we're his messengers of death. Our way of telling God that we love him still. Our way of telling Him we're here.

We're still alive, dammit.