The Empty Mirror
Chapter 69: Limbo
Halting his stride, his gaze wanders into the void as ponderings unfold in his mind. In the echo of his own reflective voice, in the very soul of his being, he wonders, "Why, among all the creatures of this vast creation, have I been chosen to bear this gift of metamorphosis? Bats, wolves, even the mist itself... forms I can assume at will, but at what cost?" And so, his body contorts, twists in a macabre choreography of transformation, yet there is no beauty in it; only the grotesque manifestation of a twisted nature. The wisdom of the world finds no explanation for him, for his metamorphosis defies the established natural laws. "If nature is the path to perfection, am I then a step backwards? A degeneration of what life longs to achieve? A curse adorned as a gift, an affront to natural selection?" In his musings, the being challenges the theory from his singular perspective. There is no adaptive advantage in his ability to fade into the mists or to stalk like the wolf. On the contrary, these transfigurations isolate him, turn him into a pariah among the shadows. "And if my existence is a mistake? A dead end in the vast labyrinth of existence? What place awaits me in the natural order if I am the only one of my kind?"
"Bats, creatures of the nocturnal threshold, are harbingers of death and desolation, but also of intuition and metamorphosis," he reflects, immersed in the duality of his being. "In their stealthy flight, do they embody my own transition from brightness to dusk, from vibrant life to something... less animated?" he wonders. "And the wolves, with their vigor and loyalty, do they perhaps reflect my own solitary essence and yet, longing for connection?" he continues, sensing the affinity of his being with that of the wild canine. "Is their howling in the darkness of the night a cry for freedom or a lament for lost companionship?" he questions. "The fog, in its constant mutation, veiling reality and unveiling unknown worlds. Is my ability to blend into it a condemnation that throws me into eternal ambiguity, or a gift that allows me to evade a world incapable of understanding me?" he muses, his figure fading into the folds of the surrounding mist.
"The sleep, that soothing balm of being, eludes me," he whispers. "I am unfamiliar with the forgetfulness that night brings, nor the serenity found in dreams. I am sentenced to perpetual wakefulness, where thoughts never cease and weariness is everlasting." The deprivation of rest is not only a physical lack but also a torment of the soul. "Could this be the true curse of my existence? A mind that never rests, always vigilant, always alone?" He reflects on how sleep is an act of harmony, a necessity for most living creatures. For him, however, it is a concept as foreign as daylight. "In the course of my progression, what twist of fate denied me the comfort of rest? What flaw in my structure has left me in this state of perpetual wakefulness?" The being wanders through deserted chambers, his only company the echo of his own footsteps and the burden of an eternity without sleep. "Eternal sleep, to me, is nothing but an allegory of a death that will never come."
In the silent contemplation of the castle, he queries with the curiosity of a sage and the meticulousness of a scholar: "Why, upon the smoothness of this mirror, does my visage find no echo? What evolutionary rupture has deprived me of the gift of beholding my own face?" In the whisper of the wind seeping through the cracks of the stone walls, he finds no answer, only the echo of silence. The absence of his reflection, unwavering in his existence, emerges not only as a corporeal anomaly but also as an emblem of his disconnection from the world. "If nature fosters adaptation and perpetuity, how is it possible that I, deprived of the visual testimony of my existence, have come to be? Is this lack of reflection perhaps an unequivocal sign of my decay?”
As the feigned moon casts its faint light upon his figure, he ponders the paradox of his condition. In a cosmos where image confirms reality, he is a spectre unto himself, an entity devoid of a face. "Perhaps," he murmurs, "in the absence of my own reflection lies the purest essence of my being. Without the specular gaze, I am free from the constraints of form, existing beyond the limited luminous perception." But deep within his being, he senses the weight of that freedom, a freedom that isolates him, that makes him a pariah of nature, an error in the tapestry of life. "So, is this absence of reflection folly or liberation? Does the shadow of my existence hold the next stage of horror, or merely a dead-end in the vast dungeon of life?"
"I am not life, for my heart does not beat; I am not death, for still my footsteps echo. I am imprisoned in a limbo, an intermediary existence that defies the natural flow of life." He walks the corridors, his figure barely outlined in the darkness: "Evolution is a process of adaptation and survival, but what role awaits me in its practice? I am the product of a mutation, a deviation that eluded natural selection. I do not evolve, I do not reproduce, I do not mutate. I am a dead end in the genealogical tree of existence." He stops before a window, the moon his only company: "If evolution is a gift for species, for me, it is a curse. There is no progress in my eternity, only stagnation. Death gives meaning to life, instils urgency and purpose. But I... I am exempt from that cosmic race.”
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"There is no end for me, only a perpetual now with no promise of release." With a sigh that does not feed lungs, he reflects, "Science yearns to understand, classify, and explain. But my existence is a riddle that resists categorisation. I am living proof that, in the vastness of the universe, there are phenomena that elude the logic of evolution. I am the curse of the undead, a being condemned to witness the unfolding of life from the shadows of immortality, like a sinful act of mutual stimulation with a lady, but instead of face to face, like a dog licking its sex, she does the same and it is simultaneous, immorality, savouring the stimuli, an endless fellatio."
In his urgent need for blood, as the night envelops the world in its dark cloak, he reflects, "Blood is my sustenance, the elixir that keeps me anchored to this plane. Without it, I would fade into nothingness, but every drop consumed reminds me of my separation from humanity. Is this my 'natural state'? If so, it is a tainted state, distant from purity and freedom." He questions, with the moon as his only witness, "Clairvoyance envisioned society as a chain that separates man from his primal nature, but what of my condition? I do not belong to society, yet I am not exempt from its bonds. Persecution and ostracism are the shadows that haunt me, as unavoidable as the night itself.”
With his gaze lost on the horizon, he reflects, "Hunger, that primal force that drives all creatures, becomes a curse in me. I do not seek companionship, but mere survival at a price I do not wish to pay. Society condemns my existence, and rightly so, for my survival means the downfall of another." He concludes on a sombre note, "Perhaps clairvoyance was right to assert that man is born free, but everywhere he is in chains. I, on the other hand, was born chained to shackles that will never break, condemned to a freedom that is itself a prison. The need for blood is my heaviest chain, a constant reminder that, though I am not of its world, I am irrevocably bound to it."
"What transformation has taken place within me? This thirst, which has been my curse, my only constant, now fades as if a divine sacrifice has redeemed my soul. Is it possible that, like the sacrificed son on the altar, I have been released from my fate?" With a new perspective, he considers, "Nature, that relentless force that has brought me to this point, could it have taken an unexpected turn? Is this the next step on my path, an evolution of consciousness rather than form?" Gazing at the illusory starry firmament, he reflects, "If evolution is adaptation, what does it imply to adapt when one is outside the cycle of life and death? Is this absence of thirst an adjustment or an anomaly? Is it progress or simply another stagnation?" With caution, yet with a glimmer of hope, he concludes, "Perhaps this change is an indication that even for beings like me, there are possibilities for transformation. Maybe I am not destined to be an eternal parasite. Perhaps I can find a new purpose, a new form of existence not bound to the darkness of blood thirst. The cup of wine rests upon the stone, next to the cheese and bread, enticing and savoury, but such stone lies upon my back, tethered with a rope to my torso; I cannot lift the cup of wine nor taste the cheese or bread. It is the curse of hunger, but my thirst for blood no longer endures.”
"Could this revelation be a divine touch that has emancipated me from my curse? Vampirism, always linked to lust and desire, what role does it play in my existence now?" With a heightened curiosity, he delves into the idea, "Carnal desire, that force that draws mortals towards intimacy and transgression, is it comparable to my former thirst for blood? Both are impulses that yearn to transcend boundaries, one in pursuit of connection, the other of survival." He questions, seeking answers, "If my vampiric condition is a manifestation of primal desires, what does it imply that they no longer dominate me? Have I reached a state of grace, a purification of instincts that once defined me?" With a broader perspective, he concludes, "Perhaps my transformation reflects the eternal struggle between nature and the divine, between earthly desires and the quest for something higher. My liberation from the thirst for blood could be a step towards understanding the true essence of desire and its place in the world."
"What am I? Darkness recognises me, yet I am unfamiliar with darkness. I drink from life, yet I do not live. Am I the shadow of what I once was or the promise of what I will never be? You are the whisper in the night, the fear that creeps into the hearts of mortals. But what does it mean to be a whisper? What does it mean to be fear? These words, 'vampire,' 'vampirism,' resonate in my mind like distant bells, yet their origin eludes me. Who has placed them there? They are terms from another world, human concepts detached from humanity, mythological nouns. So, am I captive to a concept? Has god imprisoned my essence in a cage of words and meanings I do not understand? You are what you are, whether language defines or denies you. If I am unique in my species, how can I be part of an 'us'? How can I belong to a definition I am ignorant of? Definition is for those who yearn to understand, not for those who simply are. So, should I simply 'be' without aspiring to comprehend? Is that freedom or eternal damnation? Freedom and damnation are two sides of the same coin, dancing in the air of destiny. Perhaps in reflection, in the act of questioning, I will find my true nature. Not bounded by words, but forged in the search for meaning in the vastness of eternity.”
The vampire, imprisoned in eternal present, contemplates the disintegration of his being. A part of him, a disfigured identity, writhes in agony, chained with cables that snake like vines over a forgotten monument of withered gardens. It is the very mist that envelops him, a presence that swallows everything and reveals nothing. The prophetic vision confronts him with the brutality of a grotesque painting, where his essence decomposes into a spectacle of technological decay. The anti-evolution devours him, a ravenous hunger not appeased by any substance, but nourished by the sickly connection with the machinery that constrains him. In this marvel, the entity faces the paradox of its existence: it is both prisoner and jailer, victim and executioner of a cycle of hunger and stagnation. Technology, which promised to be his salvation, has turned into his damnation, a yoke that binds him to a state of perpetual inertia, a rigid madness. But at the core of his being, a scream brews, a rebellion fermenting in the depths of his soul. The deity, his true self, rises with the fury of the oppressed, and from his phallus springs the semen of anarchy.