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Blues Saraceno - The Devil You Know

The memories are fading, falling from the cupped palms of his mind even as he struggles to grasp them. He huddles in a tiny, damp corner, scribbling into the stolen journal with his stolen pen like a frenzied prophet scribing their final vision.

His eyes contain madness and fury, the gaze shifting about constantly as if the shadows themselves were allied against him. And in Harper Rock, they very well might be.
Hell.

As he writes the word, a chill courses through his spine. Flashes of abyssal torments lashing out against his spirit are seen in front of his eyes. For a moment he scrambles back against the wall, bringing his arms up to his face to defend against the unseen, imagined enemy. When it does not strike him, he continues. And, for a moment, his gaze clarifies.

[Narration Guide:
Inner Dialogue
Exposition
Journal]

I was a cop.

It had been a long shift. Christ, I used to think I knew what a long time felt like. I'd spent the last three hours just catching up on the paperwork from all the people I'd booked. Crime had spiked in the last month and nobody could figure out why.

Now he knows, the pieces of the puzzle fitting together only in retrospect. So much only made sense when he had distanced himself from it. In life - unlife, or what the **** ever it was called - he had always cared too deeply. His "Allurist nature" had compounded his empathy a thousandfold. So why was it that now all he felt was numb?

I never knew what hit me. One minute I was sitting there, drinking a beer. The next I was blind as a bat. Only bats can still use echolocation. I stumbled my way out of the bar, running headfirst into an angry civilian. I managed to talk my way out of it.

Funny that, Ash. You had talked your way through most of your life, but when push came to shove, you couldn't con your way out of your own demise.

The next person I ran into was him.

More images flash through his mind's eye unbidden. Being struck, being shot, being stabbed, being stunned, blinded, bled, and broken. Despite his training, Asher had rarely considered himself a warrior. But this city had molded him into one, testing his willpower at every turn. He flinches from the images, choked sobs escaping him. His fists connect with walls. Repeatedly. The concrete of the sewer is unyielding to his desperation and his knuckles bleed. He does not feel the pain, though.

It is minutes before he stops. Muscle and bone have been exposed on his hands, but the wounds are already closing. Blood drips onto the pages as he writes.

I don't remember what happened next. All I know is
I woke up the next morning with a migraine and a need to feed.

Despite the disjointed spasms of emotion that hit the page, as soon as they have ended, he continues where he left off without hesitation, the lines smooth and neat. As if he does not even see the frantic thoughts pouring out onto the page against his will.

That was the first time I died. If I had known then what I know now, I might have walked into the sun. I might still. But I can't. I don't know what would come next.

Fade Aversion
While many vampires fear or dislike the Shadow Realm, you suffer from crippling terror related to the thought of being stuck there. This gives you an inescapable and obsessive desire to remain alive at any cost.

Would it be that abyss, I wonder? Or some other pit, this one filled with fire and brimstone? I'm not foolish enough to believe I've earned a paradise.

Too much blood spilled. Your hands aren't just unclean, they're ******* filthy. Human and vampire blood alike has stained whatever remains of your soul. And if it's already tainted... Well Hell, what's a little more sin?