F Your Fing Couch
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the PROLOGUE------
March 21, 2008 1:44 am
So I sit in this dump of a van, writing on the blank pages of a stolen journal. It was way back in California where I broke into the “dead” store, wandered in broken glass, and stole the lonely journal from its very home. That was the first time in almost thirty years that I was caught on camera. The first time humans caught me on their precious little tapes was back when they first came out with those noisy machines.
The van I sit in now makes more noise than jackhammers slamming their way into the cold hard pavement. The interior is stripped completely of the comfort it once had: the ugly orange shag carpet, the smell of sierra leather seats, and the oh-so lovely wonderful stickers of peace signs and lovely quotations of tranquility. The exterior looks no better. The left over paint is an off white that has darkened to yellow and green over the years. The metal handles of the 60s BMW van are so worn, they could fall off. The license plates are no longer there, contributing to the American police pulling me over frequently and becoming a tasty snack. The tires are so out of shape and look as though they are going to explode any moment. The van belongs in the junk yard even though it still carries me across this damned country.
I never go into your hotels. I never eat at your greasy fast food restaurants. I only do anything with humans or demons when forced. There is never a conversation between anyone and myself, although, that is fine by me. I drive through the night and sleep through the day, but not by choice. Call me a demon. Wait, no, call me a devil.
English is not my first language. Japanese was originally, but now it's something that doesn't exist on Earth. I can speak a few common languages on Earth, but I can read and understand much more. I am somewhat educated, because, after all, having an unlimited lifeline makes it very possible for me to learn over a longer period of time than most beings Immortality also gives me the ability to get very wealthy very quickly. I just don't possess the will power to talk to humans to get that money. That is what leads to me having to steal everything I own.
I was a god, once upon a time. I have given up my godhead, but I still have so much power. I can still mask my body and scent. I can still kill with a touch. I am still the lifeline to all beings of darkness and evil. I can still change my form into anything I wish. I am what Christians call “Satan”, although I hate being called by that name. I do not consider myself pure evil, even though I have committed horrible crimes against humanity. Over the many centuries I have existed, I have fought against that label. That very same damned label that my creator had given to me and to himself. That label meant something back then, but now nothing since most of the people that knew what I am are now dead. But their influence has an effect on me. It makes me believe certain things about myself. It makes me believe that I'm not good enough. That I'm not strong, smart, wealthy enough to mean anything. In a way, this is true in the business world. If you aren't these things, you will crumble and fall.
I almost mirror the same image I had when I died with slight changes. I was fifteen at the time of my death, but due to my creator's sick obsession with me, he brought me back from the dead and I was angry as ever. I'm just below the average height for a woman although I am clearly male. I appear to be to be in my early 20s so I can get my smokes and drink alcohol if I really wanted. My snow white hair, pointed ears, and tricolor eyes, however, make it so I don't appear human. My eyes are vibrant blues, greens, and golds. My ears are long and pointed and have multiple piercings on it. My hair is now shoulder length, in layers, and shaggy, but yet its so white, there's no way its bleached.
Against the obvious assumptions, I am not a vampire. I'm a devil which is more powerful than a demon, more bloodthirsty than a vampire, and more evil than any dictator on Earth. I'm something from the pits of Hell and something that shouldn't exist. I'm dangerous to the core. My moods can change faster than a bipolar person's and my anger is quicker to react than anyone with an impulsive disorder. I'm a liar and a con and I use people for their blood and flesh.
As this night goes on, I sit in my driver's seat on the side of the road, watching the pen ink dry quickly. I think that if somehow I could get some cold revenge through these pages, maybe it would make me feel comfortable about the life I have made for myself. Ha! No! There will never be comfort for something like me. My eyes go to the dirty windshield and I see pass the dirt and grime on it and into the stars. The gods up in the heavens have damned my creator before me and so they damn me now. They could strike me down now with this insult of a van and it would end all 'evil' that there is in the world. They aren't stupid, however. There must be 'evil' to be 'good' in this world.
I write this because I want my story out in the public. I may just wander out of my cage and get this journal published in a fully typed form...if I ever gain the courage. However, my story is a bleak one. I have committed sins that damn me everywhere in Hell. I regret all of it, but its is what iss in my blood that tells me to lead everything to destruction. I hear those enraged souls in my sleep screaming at me that if I step one foot back in Hell, they will destroy me. I never want to go back there. Too many memories. So I guess what I'm saying is this: you choose whether to continue reading this or not. I have given you warnings, hints of what I can do. So sit down somewhere where you are going to get comfortable and read the journey ahead of you.
