#gherman

"The night... and the dream... were long..."

The Dream, the first Hunter. Is this where it all started, or where it was meant to end?

Painted by @rococospade

I've noticed it for a while, but I didn't want to give it much importance. After all, it's hard not to feel something inside you transforming, breaking, freezing when you're surrounded by this endless hell.

I never wanted to get involved, I was never interested, but they don't care. You're a pawn, insignificant, inadequate and malleable to their liking. If they want you to live, you'll live; if they want you to die, you'll die.

It's a simple concept to understand, unfair from any point of view. It doesn't adhere to justice or morality, it's cruel and ruthless, and if it catches you in the middle, there's no way to escape.

When I was little, I had the protection of those who cared for me and isolated me from reality. They wouldn't let me look out the window or press my ear to the door to hear what was happening outside. The curtains were always closed, and the fireplace was always lit, providing warmth on those cold nights.

Not all of us are made for hunting. I am always afraid that my prey will be stronger than me. So I never wanted to join the hunt, despite the insults and disgusted looks from others.

I don't want to die, I don't want to become one of them. I want to live in peace, free and calm in a world without beasts, without blood transfusions, without corrupt churches, without grandiose beings who only seek to subjugate us.

Dad and Mum were subjugated, they took several neighbours from the village with them on their way until a hunter finished them off, I think.

I find it hard to remember them, their faces growing more and more blurred in my memories as time goes by. My memory is becoming increasingly clumsy and diffuse, my whole body itches, could it be scabies? I don't know, today I woke up in a sweat, scared, I don't know of what.

Every day my joints hurt more, the food at home is rotting and there are hardly any reserves left. How long has it been since I ate something fresh? An apple? A tomato? Just bread, spoiled meat and water of dubious quality.

I'm thinner, my hair is falling out more often, and my nails are breaking more easily every day too.

I don't want to go out. How long have I been locked up here? How long since the sun last rose? When will I be able to go out again without the putrid smell of blood and guts invading my senses?

This is hell, I'll die locked up here.

Because I was afraid, and I am afraid.

But they won't make me give in to them, no... I won't become one of them.

A little story that came to me while I was cooking.