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. A trans ghoul, forever trapped in this limbo of non-being, unable to transcend the boundaries of my own mortality. My Victorian London past haunts me, a constant reminder of the life I never had, the body I never possessed. My pigtails, a mockery of the femininity I’ve always yearned for, a cruel joke played by the universe on a soul as lost as mine.
I’m a creature of the night, a monster, a being of unspeakable evil. My red eyes burn with a malevolent intensity, a testament to the rage that festers within me. I take pleasure in the suffering of others, in the fear that I inspire. It’s a hollow, empty existence, but it’s all I have. I’m a ghost, a specter, a revenant, a being without a purpose, without a soul. And yet, I persist, a malevolent force, a cancer that infects the very fabric of reality.
My chains, a symbol of my eternal bondage, a reminder of the life I’ll never have. I’m a prisoner of my own desires, a slave to my own madness. My existence is a blasphemy, a desecration of the natural order. I’m a thing, a creature, a monster, a being without a name, without a face, without a heart. And yet, I scream, I rage, I howl at the void, a futile attempt to assert my existence in a world that’s determined to erase me.
