self-condemnation

[Dean Ficco]

Hatred for Carlisle had burned inside of me. The memory of that alone pained me, guilt consuming my chest. The reconciliations of the beginning were full of shame. How I could of felt anything but gratitude towards him, disobeyed him so blatantly, was now unfathomable.

Awakening, my emotions had been heightened to a point I was never accustomed to. Rage blistered hotter than the impossible flame of my throat. A pain beyond explanation. What I had become, what he had made me did not, at the time, feel like a second chance. It was condiment. A hell I would have to endure every moment of eternity.

Underneath resentment was a much more painful. I was left to mourn everything my life had been. The only things I had ever known. Grief ate at what ever was left of me. Whatever fragments of a person had been left were dissolved, like they had never existed.

I wanted to die, that is, If I were not dead already. The idea that I was still alive was absurd. This was not life, it was something in between. Not dead nor alive, simply existing. Time became immeasurable. Both minuets and weeks blended together. The only signs of change the luminescence along with the change of the atmosphere of the world.

I had lost all comfort in day. The constant reminders of what I had lost engrossing me to my misery beyond a point of coping. Midnight, was much more favorable.

The streets, only visible to my eyes, were almost empty, the only inhabitants other monsters. Creatures that preyed on other creatures. Disgusting excuses for human beings. I found in this, what I had considered a loophole. To feed on only them, to prey only on those who would otherwise prey on others, was justifiable. To be a monster of only other monsters. These were decisions I would soon regret.

In the darkness, the silence of the empty streets, I could silence my own thoughts. It was hard, to focus on keeping my own mind silent all the while others continue on. It was a matter that only added to my frustration, feeding to the flame like lit charcoal. If I could only have slept, just once more dissolve into unconsciousness. To constantly battle myself, between what I was an what I wanted to be, was exhausting. My mind always on the brim of destruction, not ever weak enough to give in.

It was not till later on in life, after Esme had given me back my remorse, revived a piece of that dissolved humanity, that I had realized Carlisle was not the one who had made me a monster. I was.