I am a wandering spirit, a shadow of a bloodied past, trapped – no, imprisoned – in a body not my own. I have no identity, as I once did, but am forced to exist in the physical, never to transcend to the ethereal. I am no one, and yet here I remain to dwell in my past existence. I live, and yet I am dead.

I sleep, but I do not dream. I eat, yet my hunger is never sated. I feel thirst, yet I cannot quench it with water or blood. I speak, but words never escape my throat.

I see the shadows of the world. They are my friends, only existing as I do, where there is no light. I stare at my reflection, a mask that looks as I once did, a shell of my former self. I cry, yet no one comforts me.

Death asks of me, "Spirit, where is your body?" He is taunting me, for he knows that my body is long departed. He knows that he has stolen from me what can never be recovered.

I have no strength to carry on, yet my spirit is forced to remain. I stand at the foothills of forever, but climbing is impossible. I am forced to stare in longing at what can never be achieved. I am broken, never to be fixed, never to be repaired, never to be loved.

There are others like me, who cry in the shadows as I do. They stare at their reflections and weep, wallowing in their despair for eternity. Some have existed far longer than I. Others continue to appear day after day, filling the void with their anguish. Despite our numbers, we have no community. We have no comfort. We have no love. We have only our individual pain to experience, and our individual pasts to ponder.

I saunter the darkened, abandoned hallways of my hell for an eternity. Time means nothing to me. My pain is never-ending. I cannot comprehend the finite any longer, only accepting my torment as infinite. I rest upon the walls of the ruins, listening to the screams of ended lives, watching the blood-stained tragedies of the past. They interest me, yet horrify me. Though I occasionally discern the sounds of laughter and conversation, they are quickly extinguished by the driving of spears and swords into the softness of flesh. Screaming and defiant yells fill the hallways of old, burning my ears.

As I cling to the wall a rare sight peaks my interest. Two humans, a young boy and girl, stroll down the corridor, their feet sinking softly into the sand beneath them with each step. They whisper into each other's ear, occasionally startled by a swift shadow or slight disturbance. I envy their life, their ability to feel and to love, and I hate them.

I begin to wail, overtaken by my anguish at the sight of their life. Tears of blood cascade down my face, the face that I hate. The face that is not my own. The girl yelps in fright and the boy turns to me, pointing an accusing finger and reaching into his pocket. He whispers something excitedly to his companion as he reveals a small red object.

"Each of them carries a mask that used to be its face when it was human. Sometimes they look at it and cry."

The words echo down the shadowed, abandoned corridor as the red object speaks in an emotionless voice. It has no comprehension – they have no comprehension – of the agony I feel, have felt for an eternity. I experience hatred and rage. Their trivial pursuit of knowledge has led them to their pitiful conclusions about the anguish I endure, yet nothing intellectual can derive meaning from my pain. I am beyond existence. I do not sometimes look at my mask, my former self, and cry. No, my sheer existence is weeping, my lack of life is sadness. There is nothing else.

I observe them for a moment as they speak to each other curiously about me. Warm blood still trickles from my crimson eyes as I glare at them. The boy reminds me of someone that I once knew before my hell began, a son that I once nurtured and loved while he was a child. Yes, that is true. But there is no solace in my eternal wretchedness. The thought of my son does not comfort me, but enrages me. Anger fills me, an emotion even worse than the constant misery I feel forever.

I descend upon them. They shriek in terror as the darkness overtakes them. My shadows are now all they know, and all they have ever known. My wrath, fear, and depression are the only things they can remember as the life slips away from them. As I tear away the boy's throat he makes a distinct groan. I revel momentarily as the hot red life force exits their bodies and fills me, but my grief returns in force as their blood does not satisfy my thirst or my ire.

The boy utters one final groan before his last breath. Yes, he is just like my son. He even dies just like my son.

Others like me have gathered, most merely interested by the calamity echoing through the otherwise lifeless hallways. I ignore them, returning to my anguish and self-loathing. I have forgotten the boy and the girl after what may have been minutes or centuries. Time is meaningless in hell. I return to the shadows, communing with them as my only friends in a lightless existence. I will never love, nor be loved. I will never be comforted. I will never stop hating. I know only fear and suffering.

I am a wandering spirit, trapped… no, imprisoned….