I do not exactly know why I am here; why I chose here and now to speak. It is not something I have to know, I suppose. There is much I have to say. . .and, this is, at times, a safer place to say it. I speak for many, many more then one. It. . .is hard for me to put this into words. I do not like people. I do not like humans. I do not like animals. I am not sure what I like, aside from being left alone. But I am always alone, inside and out. There are no tears, so I cannot cry them. There is nothing; yet, there must be something. I do exist.
This world is Hell: it is Hell on earth (not that I really believe in God or the Devil). I am in it. How old am I? How did I come to be me? You do not want that story. I do not want it either, for that matter. I am older; yet I am younger. I am not who or what you think I am. I. . .exist to feel pain. Yet I am numb. I am a riddle, and I have never met anyone who could solve my riddle.
a Child of Pain
Here am I again. Why? I cannot say. Perhaps because it grows near a time when speaking my part is needed, when the torments of Hell itself needs be revealed. So many things to say, and the Voices of the Dead call out and demand them to be spoken. I have not the throat to speak such things, yet it is needed. Perhaps others do, or perhaps such does not exist, and these phantoms, these wraiths and hatreds and long-dead poisons of the past shall forever be voiceless and mute as are all the Dead. I do not know.