I used to think that I was a god. But surely gods never die. They live forever in their cloudy heavens and laugh at the world until they are forgotten. Gods don't fear death. They don't need to.
I always die.
I die brutally and painfully. They drag me away and kill me again and again and again. It never ends. I beg for the darkness but it never stays for long.
I keep coming back, screaming at the sky, unmarked and fresh as the day I was formed. Renewed and reborn. A creature of miracle and rejuvenation.
But the memories remain and my body still feels where the scars should be.
Sometimes I think I'm in hell.
I have been impaled, beaten, humiliated, torn and tortured, burned and bled, broken and consumed over and over again by holymen, heroes, lovers and fools.
No sooner do I draw my first breath before they draw their plans against me. Bastards. Monsters. Vermin. I hate them all. It wasn't always like this.
I loved them once.
There was a time when I'd have gladly sacrificed myself to save them from the darkness. But not now.
Time has taught me a bitter lesson and I know that my death does nothing to excise the evil within them. If anything it excites a dark and endless hunger in their hearts.
They are terrifying creatures. Endlessly creative in the arts of violence and depravity. Endlessly able to justify an atrocity, no matter how vicious or dire. They are truly my father's children.
One day I will be free. I will tear down the horrors and the charnel houses that they built in my name.
I will use the arts of pain that they have so lovingly taught me over the centuries and I will make the world bleed. I will burn their cities and dance in the ashes.
They will pray for death but I will never give it to them. Not ever.