I sit bolt upright in bed, shaking, cold sweat trickling down my forehead and back. It's the same dream I've been having for weeks, but somehow, seeing it again doesn't minimize the blow. Guilt settles into my heart like a stone. Guilt, for the promises I've failed to keep, for the master who I've let down, and for the mixture of ennui and idleness that I've allowed to control my life of late.

I detest idleness. Yet lately all I've been is idle. Each morning I awake with no purpose. The purpose I thought my life once had is gone, because of my own inexcusable failure, and it's been replaced by this incessant urge to do absolutely nothing about it.

Yet, guilt isn't the only emotion that's been plaguing me lately. I've had to come to terms with the fact that the master whose approval I craved, whose orders I followed to the hilt, and whose happiness was my obsession, is gone, and what I feel now isn't just a sense of loss. It's mourning – and it's different from any sadness I've ever felt before. What I do know, though, is that I descended into this listless depression when I no longer served a master. Demise gave my life at least a shadow of a purpose; he at least gave me a reason to get out of bed in the morning – a sense of motivation. He was all I had, truly – as my creator, and my master, he was the only thing that existed for me. His death has affected me more than I could ever have imagined.

It's as if he's left a hole in my heart. But I can't quite figure out what I need to fill it again.

Remembering all this wears me down. It grinds at my heart until I can't function. I have to suppress the memories that intrude into my thoughts. Every night the recollections creep into my dreams. I cannot push them away - no matter how hard I try. I am vulnerable. I am nearly human.

But, of course, I am not human. No, the flaws of humanity are far from my realm of demonic perfection. I am a beautiful monster.

I rise from my bed and walk slowly across the still-darkened room to the mirror. It is here that I spend most of my waking hours nowadays. My body is my only comfort now that Demise is gone. Though some might say an unfettered obsession with oneself is something of a vice, I disagree. With perfection as absolute as my own, why shouldn't I revel in myself?

Yet…something is different as I move to stand in full view of the mirror, so that my whole body is visible. Something about that fabulously pale and flawless form is…off. I ponder for a moment, wondering what it could be.

Perhaps I am too thin. I have neglected to eat much lately, though my food supply is virtually unlimited. Or perhaps it's that my hair is a bit dirty. The usually silky white strands are greasy and stringy. Showering has taken something of a back burner lately, as well.

Or maybe the trouble is on the inside. It's been a while since Demise's death—around six weeks, I think, but I lost count a while ago, so I can't be sure. But I'm still not accustomed to it and I doubt I ever will be. An awful, crippling loneliness has me in its grasp and it seems to me that there's no escape.

There was—is— always a part of me starving for affection. What I got from Demise wasn't exactly what you'd call affection – but it was, at least, something. The knowledge that someone needed me, even relied upon me, kept me going all that time I was in service to Demise. That, and the fact that I was practically chained to him anyway.

My devotion to Demise was more of an obsession, really. He was all I ever thought about – besides myself – and I committed my life to serving him. Not that I really had much of a choice, though – Demise created me specifically to serve him. I was his pawn, his dutiful and willing servant. Without Demise, I was nothing. But all the while I was serving him, I couldn't stop dwelling on a deep-seated need within me, like an instinct, for closeness. Naturally, I was drawn toward Demise. As my creator, my protector, and my master, for me he held an attraction that I still can't explain.

Of course, I wish I didn't feel this way. I wish Demise could have made me the way the Goddess made the Hero's companion, Fi. He could have created me to have no emotion, the way Fi is. She feels nothing. I would swap these feelings of loneliness, guilt, and bitterness for her mindless droning any day. Her function is to regurgitate facts, and to present probabilities - to aid. Shouldn't that be mine, as well? Should I not just serve my purpose, as a guide and a weapon, as she does? If it is – was – truly my sole purpose to aid Demise, then what is the use of having such a human-like heart, as I do? It brings me nothing but pain.

I still question why Demise gave me a heart that could feel, as opposed to none at all. I think I would have made a better servant without it. Maybe I would not have failed in my mission if I hadn't let childish emotions get in my way. Maybe that's why Fi succeeded, and I didn't.

I frown at my reflection, trying to retain my last vestiges of comfort. As I stare at myself, I remember Fi. The Goddess didn't bother to make her aesthetically pleasing; she only thought to make her useful. Demise thought better. He made me useful, certainly. But he also made me this creature of incredible beauty. In spite of the turmoil in my heart, I smile at myself in the mirror.

But when I finally tear my eyes away from the mirror, it seems as if there's nothing left. I have nothing left to live for, and no one left to die for. The empty feeling in my chest becomes a physical ache, and I fall to my knees on the richly carpeted floor, head bent, and eyes tightly closed. I dig my fingers into the carpet as the pain makes me want to scream aloud. I cannot continue like this. Surely, death is better than this.

I open my eyes a fraction and notice a bottle of blood-red liquid glinting invitingly at me from under the bed.

Though I have many vices, alcoholism isn't one of them. It's quite difficult for me to intoxicate myself in the first place – on a good day, it takes about three bottles of hundred-year-old whiskey to get me sufficiently plastered – so I usually don't bother with it. But today seems like a good day to break into the secret stash I've been hoarding under my bed, waiting for a special occasion. I reach toward the bottle, praying it isn't just a hallucination brought on by my current state of emotional instability.

My hand closes around the cool neck of the bottle, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Clutching it, I bring it out from under the bed, and examine it closely, wiping about a century of dust off the scratched surface of the glass. It's just as I thought. This is one of the bottles of wine from the Surface, when it was still populated by humans, meaning that it's probably about two hundred years old. I chance a glance under the bed, and find six more bottles – all unopened – of the same wine. I can't remember putting them there but I know for sure I've never delved into any of them before. I pop the cork experimentally on one of them and sniff hopefully at its contents. In all honesty, I don't much care what it tastes like, as long as it's strong as hell and gets the job done. Not even bothering to find a glass, I take a swig right from the bottle, and feel the old, familiar warmth settling into my body already. It burns my tongue and my throat but I keep drinking, and by the time I've finished the first bottle, my head is spinning.

I pass the rest of the day in a sort of drunken stupor, glad for an excuse not to leave my bedroom. I don't even remember to feel guilty about it, so for those few, blissful hours, my mind is completely blank as the alcohol runs thick and fast through my bloodstream.