The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

To every good man who set his eyes on Heaven and has fallen somewhere along the way… I know your pain. To every honorable man who set his standards high and his goals even higher, truly believing he could stand tall against the temptations of life, but had the ground ripped out from under his feet… I know your suffering. That dark and poisoning prison of your mind where the things you've done are like iron chains holding you to the deeds of your past, weighing down your heart, your mind, your spirit, making you believe you'll never again rise above the endless mess that wears your footsteps.



Day and night the memory of your decisions torture you, reminding you of all that you've lost, playing back in vivid detail the wretched stench of your failures. There is no escape, and as the walls of your regrets slowly close in around you, you long for death to finally free you from your prison. But death, it remains as far off as redemption. Like a drop of honey in a desert, sitting just beyond an arms reach. So close you can smell it, but never close enough to quench the anguish of your breathing. Oh how sweet death would be. To feel the heart pound it's final thud, to feel the lungs release their final whisper. To finally be free of this cage. But death is a luxury beyond your grasp.



There you sit, in that low and dark place where there is no light and no direction. Your mind can no longer make sense of it's yearnings, your thoughts now rule you. That cold dark place, where all who once loved you have turned, despising the sight of your failure, abandoning you in the pit of your mistakes. From their self righteous paper woven thrones they whisper amongst themselves, bathing your name with saliva and waste, casting down words upon empty words… "Get up. Get right. Fix yourself." They don't see the chains that grip you. Perhaps they don't want to see. Perhaps it's the parading of your failures that distracts them from their own, they like it. The sound of their chatter is sickening… Oh how sweet death would be.



There you sit, in that low and dark place, defeated, overcome, feeling like it's easier to give up, stay at rock bottom than venture the climb back to where you once were. Why even attempt going back? To strive, toil and labor endlessly over the cheap affections of those who have already abandoned you? To spend your years building passion and friendship with those who watched you spiral to your lowest then spit on you for it? To regain the lie that is love so you can go about dancing in the same loveless masquerade that bound these chains to your feet? To fight back the respect of those who have already stripped you of it? Vanity of vanities. Oh how sweet death would be.



Maybe you were meant to be an island. A prisoner of your thoughts, a captive to your failures, a rogue soul walking alone with not one heart beside you. You weren't meant to know love, friends, family or companionship. You were simply meant to fight, without rhyme or reason, without purpose or end... just fight. Because fight is in your blood. You are the face of struggle, the face of tribulation. The calloused hands that beat against the storms of life, the bruised brow born to wear a thousand tears, the shredded back meant to bear a thousand burdens, the torn knees made to take a thousand falls... You are the face of death. And Oh death how sweet you are.