I found myself lost in a sea of thoughts, drifting through an endless void. In the ordinary, I sought meaning; in the emptiness, I yearned for depth.

Why is it that some folks can embrace tough truths while others choose to look away?

The questions buzzing in my mind were the ones that appeared to slip past everyone else.

My mind acted like a sieve, catching even the tiniest imperfections and meanings that others decided to ignore. Memories played out within, stretching from my earliest days as a toddler to the final chapter of my own short story. But instead of bringing clarity, this constant review of my past life only deepened my curiosity.

My life felt dull and lacking in vibrancy...

The world, molded by my memories, stayed consistently dim—a series of instances where I worried about worst-case scenarios. Could this never-ending search for imperfections be the cause of my detachment from everything? Had my constant quest unknowingly driven away the very opportunities I longed for?

Am I always searching for validation from others instead of embracing my authentic self?

I had longed to break free from the shackles of inevitability, to free my mind and body from society's harsh constraints. Yet, my attempt at escape seemed to have backfired, crushing my fragile hope.

How utterly pitiful I must seem...

I lacked not only a wellspring of motivation but also a deep understanding of myself. What were my genuine desires? Why did I feel so adrift within my own being? Did I truly live and exist at all?

Sometimes, I wondered if my existence was a mistake... Everything seemed empty of meaning in my eyes.

Within the darkness, faint words emerged, barely visible in the dim light.

Before I could decipher these illusions, they vanished, one by one.

In my state of confusion, I attempted to rouse myself from my numbed senses.

The swirling gloom troubled my consciousness, a pain that enveloped my entire being like an invisible vice.

"Argh!"

The pain intensified, forcing my eyes open and rekindling sensations I thought I had forgotten.

After what felt like an eternity in the clutches of what I believed to be my demise and reviewing my past life countless times, I found myself able to perceive once more.

"I'm alive? Or is this a mere dream?"

I could speak.

My voice emerged hoarse and scratchy as my senses gradually returned, revealing reality once again—a world burdened with a constant ache that permeated both body and mind. Hunger and thirst tormented me in tandem.

My head throbbed.

Clarity slowly emerged, unveiling a vast, dim expanse overhead adorned with moss. As I attempted to rise, each motion was accompanied by a sense of unfamiliarity, leaving me grappling with discomfort.

"Where am I?" I whispered, my voice weak and raspy.

I surveyed my surroundings. The ground was cold, and visibility was limited. Yet, amidst the darkness, faint lights—glowing stones and a few burning candles—battled against the blackness, offering me a narrow glimpse of my surroundings.

A small altar dominated the space. I examined the table upon which I was seated, taking note of its precarious stability, as if it might collapse at any moment.

Resting upon the altar were the remnants of thirteen candles, arranged in a circle. Blank papers adorned the walls, forming a marked perimeter around the room. Adjacent to me was a menacing, archaic sword impaled into a lifeless figure.

"Is she still breathing? No..."

The image of the figure, skewered by the blade, etched itself into my mind—a lifeless, emaciated red-haired adult woman with twisted horns and ebony eyes. One horn was shattered, releasing a somber mist akin to ink; a final exhalation of darkness. An unexpected connection arose between me and her, a strange sadness for a being vastly different from anything I had known.

A profound yet subtle sorrow swirling within me, surpassing physical pain. Her exquisite countenance, frozen in agony, captivated me, and I found myself compelled to follow her soulless gaze to the blade that pierced her chest.

"She's dead", I mumbled unintentionally, acknowledging her death.

As the scene unfolded before me, a growing unease tightened its grip on my heart. The tragedy emitted deep-seated grief. It had been a few hours, yet I had somehow assimilated the knowledge of her recent demise, though the knowledge I obtained remained a mystery.

Whether this is a cult or something else entirely, it's undeniably a murder,

My heart raced, each beat sending a quiet tremor through me.

Gone are the comforts of a cozy bed, the morning sunlight streaming through curtains, the jarring sound of an alarm clock, the buzz of a smartphone, and the hum of an electric fan. Instead, a harsh reality confronts me—dull light from luminescent stones cast a chill against the cold stones. An unpleasant, sharp smell fills my nostrils.

I should be shocked seeing her, a non-human demon lady in the flesh, but I have no energy to spare, and I feel uncomfortable all over.

Even the words that escaped my lips left me dumbfounded—it was mysterious, foreign yet oddly familiar. A captivating, feminine voice that was not my own.

This room, wherever I am, exudes an unsettling and nauseating feeling...

Urgh! I pause, allowing my dizziness to subside before considering my next steps. However, my determination falters as a loud growl emanates from my stomach, a stark reminder of my hunger. Dehydration also plagues me; my throat is parched as I watch over her injuries, particularly the crimson trails that signify her bleeding.

Blood, her blood...

My gaze once again fixates on her wounds, particularly the red streaks adorning her chest. As I sit down on the ground, my hands tremble as I tear a scrap of cloth from her tattered attire, bringing my face closer to the rivulet of red liquid.

Her blood possesses an oddly enticing quality, and though it's perplexing, my desperation for sustenance overrides any reservations and common sense. With no apparent access to water or food nearby, I may have no choice but to rely on her blood. It's a more favorable alternative than resorting to cannibalism or dying in starvation.

Despite the numbing effects of hunger and thirst, I instinctively bare my 'fangs' and press them against her neck. With a slight adjustment of her head to the side, I draw forth the life-giving rivers of fluid. Surprisingly, revulsion fails to grip me; I persist until every last drop is extracted. Even the puddles of blood on the frigid ground evoke no repulsion as I instinctively lick them clean.

No drop should be wasted.

However, I couldn't bring myself to touch the blood-drenched sword. My primal instincts tells me it was a bad idea—the weapon itself radiates a white light, unaffected by the darkness enveloping the room.

Translucent brown rectangles with luminous text emerge, borderless and hover at the periphery of my vision.

¹Thanks to @Tunefullcobra for grammar correction.