Beyond Grim And Evil
(A/N: Second up today.)
Like A Disease
Gothic. A dark and morbid, and eerie being. Light had never appealed to her. She'd always been a creature of the night. Figuratively speaking, of course. She loved the spookiness of her old home, of the moor and field nearby. She adored the haunting atmosphere the house upon the hill untouched by time gave off, overlooking her own home. Oh how she longed to solve its mysteries. Who had once been there? What had happened to its occupants? Darkness. Rats, bats, mice, spiders, snakes, torture devices and their properties, malignance; things most human beings would shy away from, be afraid of. Not her. All associated with darkness she embraced; morbid poems, haunting melodies, ancient stories of terrors and atrocities that had occurred in the past, and she adored graveyards, being in them surrounded by the sadness and memories and history. She was curious about all these things. A pity Atrocia's show was cancelled.
She wryly thought of what history would have held for her, the fate she would have suffered had she lived way back when. The people of that time would probably have called her a witch. Not that she really did anything witchlike. Well, she supposed having a deep knowledge of medicinal plants and the recipes made from them would prove it to the witch hunters of old. She supposed gathering them up would be suspicious. She supposed her very nature would have driven them to believe she was the very thing they were so desperately stalking. She could laugh at the thought. Good luck with them catching her. Good luck with them getting rid of her. She was like a disease. She would always return, no matter what. You couldn't shake her, couldn't lose her unless she so wanted you to. She kept coming back, never dying, never giving up.
You'd think, judging by her Gothic nature, that on learning the Grim Reaper was actually the true god of death, she would have leapt at the chance to stay with him. No. She'd run in terror. Why? Because though she loved darkness and morbidity, she didn't love death. She didn't want to die. Who did? No one she knew. Even if she had gone, would she have been able to watch the pain and suffering of the ages first hand? To be there, see it, smell it, touch it… She didn't think so. The thought frightened her. It would frighten any human being. She was like a disease, resilient, adaptable, easily changed, but suffering was one aspect to which she didn't dare sway. She couldn't. She'd heard and seen so much of it already, but to actually witness it… Well, look at the house on the hill. She knew nothing of its history, of its story, but somehow she sensed that despair, tragedy, hatred, lingering there, and she wasn't sure she ever wanted to know all the details. After all, what mortal could subject themselves to the world's anguish and yet remain themselves?
