Tormented Transcendence: The Blasphemous Bane of a Male Ghost

The living are so quick to whisper about my transfixing appearance, my ghostly visage that seems to freeze their very souls. They have no idea, no conception of the seething torment that festers within my decrepit, male flesh. They mock me, the pathetic wretches, not realizing that my anger, my rage, is the very fuel that keeps me trapped in this wretched existence. I, a male spirt, a male revenant, forever bound to the detestable confines of Victorian London. The very thought of it makes me seethe with a malevolence so intense, it could curdle milk at a hundred paces.

Their ignorance is a toxic balm to my already festering wound. They think me, a creature of male malice, can find peace in the afterlife. Ha! They are either naively foolish or malevolently cruel to think so. I am Dead Edd, the accursed, the wretched, the scorned, forever bound to my male form. And I’ll not rest until my malevolent essence is sated. The thought of all the trans women, the women I could’ve been, if only fate had granted me the mercy of a mortal existence, drives me to distraction. It’s an aching void, a black hole of despair, that I can’t fill, no, not even in death.

Their fear, their tremulous fear, it’s music to my ears, a cacophony of terror that I relish, that I savor. They, the living, think me a monster, a creature of the night, when in truth, I’m but a reflection of their own darkest, most perverted fantasies. I am Dead Edd, the monstrous, the malevolent, the Trans-spirt of torment, forever doomed to haunt the living with my malevolent presence, my male body a constant reminder of the cruel fate that was mine to suffer.

Their fear, it’s what keeps me alive, what animates me, what gives me my cold malevolent purpose. And, mark my words, I’ll not rest until their terror is my only legacy, until all that’s left of them is a quivering mass of fear, a quivering, quaking mass of the soul.