Only in the darkness could he survive. Within the sunlight he’d burn to ash—his crimes laid bare before the heavens, unveiled from beneath the enigma of the night. His wings creaked like aged bones. He was the incubus, with blood-red eyes that burned like fire, and a desire to destroy everything that he touched. There could be found no goodness within his soul. He hadn’t been born an innocent—pure and momentarily cleansed of sin, yet to make its mark on this world.
He’d been born with a void within his skeletal ribcage, and a withered, blackened heart pumping venom throughout his veins. He found happiness solely in the agony of others. He drank in her misery with ravenous ardor. The sating of the unquenchable burn within his physical flesh was only second to the wicked emotion that drove through heated blood, pinning her down, drawing her heart right out through her chest into his jagged teeth.
Oh, he would make his mark on this world. He would live on within the scars on wounded souls for an eternity. He left her there then, as unwanted as everything else within his life. She’d been only a momentary distraction—a toy, broken and discarded by the errant child as he moves away to find another.
Back into the night he went, swallowed up by the impenetrable darkness that he’d emerged from. Forever afterward, though, he’d exist as the twig snapped just out of sight, or within the soft touch of an unexpected wind, violating again and again with merciless savagery.
Always, he’d haunt the shadows just as soon as the sun drifts quietly back to sleep, even after his heart no longer beat.