This will be a five-chapter story, so if you were thinking to yourself, "not another one-chapter one-shot," here's a disappointment! For those of you that are artists, you may have heard of the 100 Theme Challege on DeviantART. I picked a random five and decided to play around with style. Please review if you have any suggestions, of if you think I should do more than five. Thanks!
All characters of Hellsing © Hirano Kouta
The nightmares jolt me awake often in the middle of the daytime. Frequently I find my snow-marble cheeks soaked in a strange red substance still moist enough to stain my gloves when I touch my face.
I snort mentally. Horrordreams. After living through nearly six hundred years of them, I should be used to it by now. Dreaming was a human thing, hardly commendable for the likes of me.
But did that mean that there was some human left in me after all? Some vestige of folly found only in the subconscious? Nonsense: I am one of the undead now, a creature of the night and hell itself. There is no room for humanity.
On such occasion one day when the sun was full and red in the sky, after awaking from a hellish rendition of my past tainted crimson, I wondered if every being dreamt, not just humans.
I knew that I had once been human, but that was a long, long time ago, in a forgotten time and place.
I was called a monster by humans and vampires alike. Called a monster by the monsters, how ironic. I often ask my prey if they are dogs, humans, or monsters right before I end their lives.
After a while you start to wonder who the monster really is.
I raise my hands to my face to smear away the thick scarlet tears that stream from my equally scarlet eyes. I am infuriated by the slight tremble to my hand. Although my heart no longer beats, it is still there, and it often hurts terribly for a reason I can't comprehend.
Just what am I, anyway?
I can't deny that I am an all-powerful being. Anyone would quake in their boots just from hearing the three syllables of my name, and those that didn't were the ones who couldn't comprehend my power even in their wildest dreams.
I no longer feel the regrets of murder as I have lost track of the numbers that I've killed. I can kill anything now without hesitation. My master tells me to "search and destroy." I have no problems following her orders.
Yet, no matter how fragile and ephemeral humans are, I can't help but envy them. When the burdens of life become too much to bear, they can simply die, and their existence would vanish into this pungent air.
I am not subject to such exoneration.
They can sleep without the weight of millions of souls plaguing their dreams, driving them almost mad day in and day out.
They haven't seen hell, haven't lived in a world of carnage so vivid and heavy that no one hears you when you scream.
They don't know what it's like to be killed countless times in various ways and never die.
That's why I feel genuine anger at those in the world who wish for immortality, those who would kill for a flawless and superior body that never ages nor ills. Why would one condemn one's self to their own purgatory?
I don't feel much of anything anymore, but when I see these young, foolish beings that my master sends me to destroy, I want to scream. Because they don't understand.
At the scene of my death, light has always been present. Has the light of the sun ever been such a beautiful thing? It's so dark in here, everywhere. I can't find the light. Oh, I wish for a truly worthy opponent to fight one day. I wanted someone who will battle me on par. Then maybe I would be put to sleep at last. Then maybe I'll find some light.
Or will there be nightmares there too?