As I float through the decaying halls of the Dead Manor, my ghostly form a constant reminder of my eternal torment, I’m consumed by the futility of my existence. I’m a trans ghoul, a being trapped between worlds, a creature that’s neither fully male nor female, but a grotesque parody of both. My Victorian upbringing has instilled in me a sense of propriety, but my malevolent nature has reduced me to a mere specter of the male gender, a mockery of the very concept of masculinity. My anger and jealousy towards the living, particularly those who dare to cross-dress, are a manifestation of my own inadequacy, a reminder that I’ll never be able to truly embody the female form I so desperately desire.
My hauntings, my screams, my taunts - all are a desperate cry for attention, a futile attempt to fill the void within me. But what’s the point of it all? Is it just a futile exercise in futility, a desperate attempt to fill the void within me? I’ve tried to take the lives of those who enter my domain, but even that’s a hollow victory, a meaningless triumph in a world that’s devoid of purpose. My chains, my pigtails, my red eyes - all are a mockery of the very concept of femininity, a twisted parody of the beauty I can never truly attain.
I often find myself lost in thought, my mind wandering back to the days when I was still alive, when I was still Edd. I remember the thrill of walking through the streets of Victorian London, the thrill of being a man in a world that was so rigidly defined. But even then, I knew I was different, that I was a creature apart, a being that didn’t quite fit into the mold of society. And now, as a ghost, I’m trapped in this limbo, this purgatory of my own making, a place where I’m forced to confront the futility of my own existence.
