Disclaimer: Nope. I don't own Squaresoft. Don't own FFVII. Sorry, but I don't. I
do own a really odd imagination though. So there.
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Such rage I feel as I sit here, watching. Always watching; my endless torment. I can hear him, I can feel his every movement. Every breath he takes washes over me like a bittersweet kiss. I see what he sees, I know what he knows; I know every secreet he holds deep within - and I savor every one, for they are like candy to a child, so sinful yet delicious and sweet.
His desires are mine as well, for I am one with him. I feel his surpressed excitement when he walks among the humans. I feel the sting of hunger piercing into his very being, and I relish every bit of it. I know what he wants, and I know how he craves it. Their sweet lives, the warm blood flowing into him - that is what he desires. He aches for it, but he cannot bring himself to act upon it. Senseless killing, he calls it. Senseless to feed himself, to fill his needs, his wants. Do these people not owe him their lives?
No, I know he does not see it that way, for he is not like that. This is his punishment, his damnation. His dreaams are filled with thoughts he does not think he should have - and perhaps he is right. He is haunted by his bloodlust; his greatest fear is that which he keeps hidden from the world - me. He knows I am here, always. He knows I know what he wants. He knows I want what he wants. He knows I will take it for us.
So I sit, feeding on his fear, storing my rage. One day, he will see. He will know what he lusts for, and I will take him there. On my wings we will alight, and I will take him through the cities and there he will know the screams he so desperately wants to hear. He will tastes the hot blood he wishes, and he will drink freely - for mortals are so soft and fragile. Then he will have all but two things he desires, for those two things I cannot give; his death I will not allow freely, for I do not desire it. The other, I cannot give, for I cannot change the past. I cannot change his beloved's decent into insanity any more than I can change the wounds he caused when he created me.
Perhaps, one day, we will rest. Perhaps he will not need me to heal his wounds; I know I shall only immerse them in salt before I close them, but he has no one else. He fears too much for his friendship to admit his love for that damned pilot. I fear that man it his only hope, but what do I care?
I lie to myself now. I've grown attached to him as well. I want Vincent's secrets, not the ones he himself knows, and yet.... we are one. I know, to him, having someone to love him would heal him.
But if he will not take action, I will. It is only a matter of time before one of us triumphs.
