Waiting...

I must be on the brink of death. I must be because I’ve never quite been this lively.
I passed out at ten o’clock last night exhausted from being up for over thirty hours. I woke up about two hours later feeling fiery and refreshed. I figured something had to have woke me up for me to come out of a dead sleep like that so I went on a little patrol to find the culprit but no one was there.

I feel as though I’m being fucked with.

I’m not sure why I haven’t been attacked. They have to have someone in position. It only took the doctor twelve hours to find me and that was after I pissed them off so I’m assuming they had him take his time getting to me.
 I bet I’m at the bottom of a pile of paperwork designated low priority. Had I declared myself a runner I bet someone would have been here before I even tried to cross the street.
I would hope they are planning something but that would be for my pride more than anything else.

But at least I’m alive.
A friend has been hard at work trying to convince me that my life can mean something. Not that I’m not convinced or anything, but I cannot deny my sentencing. Were I a better person I might fight it.

Even now, I find myself looking down on the people walking the street drooling. I haven’t killed anyone in so long. I crave it but I know my bloodlust can’t be satisfied. I try to keep myself distracted but there is so little else to divert my attention to. I want to hear them scream. I want to feel them struggle. I want to see the hope fade from their eyes as they slowly bleed out. I miss it.
I look down at my hands in an effort to read my scars and revel in the murders I have already committed but I only find further frustration. I had not realized just how much the master had stripped from me. The life lessons my actions had carved into my flesh removed. I frantically checked every part of my body that I could see but the scars are all gone.
I became so desperate for a distraction I felt up for my face so I could relive my childhood trauma, but what I found instead was smooth. Smooth like I could only imagine a normal person’s face must be. I ran down to street level to look at myself in a car’s mirror. What I saw brought me to tears.

I have a face. I have an entire face and not one inch of it looks like someone took sandpaper to it. I’m fucking normal.
Ha ha ha.
I could have never imagined that’s what my face was supposed to look like. I look like such an asshole.
… Ha ha ha.

Blessed as I was to find myself with a face, after the novelty of looking at myself wore out I was alone again, alone with nowhere to lock myself in my own head.
I’ve found I’m poor company. I wrote all this so I wouldn’t have to deal with my own shit.
I think I’m going to go steal a book or something so I have something to do while I wait.
Be well strangers… and Ember.