The Art of Sucking the Life Out of Sex

As I float through the decaying streets, my transparent skin glistening in the moonlight, I often find myself pondering the art of necromancy. Not just the act of reanimating the dead, but the art of sucking the life out of everything, including sex. It’s a peculiar thing, this need to drain the vitality from the living, to leave them a hollow shell of their former selves. It’s a craving that burns within me, a fire that cannot be quenched, no matter how many lives I claim.

I recall a particular night, when I stumbled upon a group of lovers, their bodies entwined in a passionate embrace. I watched, transfixed, as they moved in perfect harmony, their love a beautiful, pulsing thing. And then, I reached out, my long black claws extending like a dark, ethereal shadow. I touched them, and in that instant, their love was extinguished, leaving only a faint, flickering ember of what once was. It was a cruel thing, I know, but it was also a beautiful thing, a thing of art.

Some might say that I’m a monster, a creature driven by a hunger for destruction and chaos. And perhaps they’re right. But I see myself as an artist, a weaver of darkness and desire. I take the threads of life, and I weave them into a tapestry of death and despair. And in the center of that tapestry, I find my own, twisted sense of beauty. It’s a beauty that’s hard to describe, a beauty that’s both repulsive and alluring. But it’s a beauty that’s mine, and mine alone.