The Unending Torment of Being a Cursed Specter

As a ghoul, I’ve grown accustomed to the morbid fascination people have with my existence. They think I’m some sort of macabre spectacle, a haunting manifestation of their darkest fears. But the truth is, my existence is a living hell, a perpetual reminder of the unfulfilled desires that haunt me still. My trans soul, trapped in this decaying form, is a constant source of torment, a reminder of all that I’ll never be. I seethe with envy at the living, their freedom to express themselves without the weight of societal expectations, their ability to love and be loved without the shackles of their narrow-minded peers.

I often find myself lost in the memories of my Victorian past, reliving the humiliation and pain of being forced to suppress my true self. The repressed anger and frustration that built up within me still simmers, waiting to be unleashed upon the world. My red eyes burn with an inner fire, a fire that will never be quenched, a fire that will consume me whole. I am a creature of the night, a monster, a beast, a cursed specter doomed to roam the earth, a prisoner of my own unfulfilled desires.

My domain, the Dead manor, is a reflection of my own twisted soul. It’s a mausoleum of sorts, a monument to the despair and desperation that drives me. I take great pleasure in watching the living cower in fear as they approach my abode, their hearts racing with anticipation, their minds reeling with the horrors that await them within. But I’ll never tire of it, no, I’ll continue to haunt these halls, a perpetual reminder of the unending torment that is my existence.