• It was a dark and stormy night.

    The wind howled, rain pounded the earth, and the world at large was generally depressing in order to suit the mood of this particular chapter. Dark clouds gathered, but somehow, the full moon shone clearly overhead for dramatic effect. Lightning shot through the sky. It was all very bleak and stuff.

    Alone in a graveyard, Damien Eagleheart Nightshadow perched atop a worn gravestone, brooding. Brooding was what he did best, and he made sure to fit it in as often as possible. In fact, there was little else he did with his time anymore.

    Rain dripped from his stylishly messy black hair, and poured down his face like a thousand angels’ tears. He was so devastatingly hot that, a few yards away, an unfortunate squirrel happened to catch sight of him, and it dropped out of its tree – stone cold dead.

    Damien glanced up, and saw the lifeless body clearly with his totally hot superhuman eyesight. He heaved a world-weary sigh.

    “Typical,” he murmured, and his angelic face twisted in such an expression of agonized, stunning poetry, that a rosebush to his left just up and died. Damien turned mournful eyes towards it, and sighed again. It really was a bother, being so pretty.

    Yet, he was used to this sort of morbid occurrence. Gold turned to dust in his fingers. Children were always running away, screaming. The most delectable of feasts tasted like nothing but Irish Oatmeal. This was his curse. A half-life. An existence that only served to bring him torment.

    Angst, he chanted to himself. Angst, angst, angst.

    An immortal life. Wasn't it everyone’s dream? Damien laughed to himself bitterly. Some dream. Instead of using his time to find a cure to cancer or something, Damien was cursed to haunt dramatically lit settings, feeling excruciatingly sorry for himself.

    He was a monster. A demon. A spawn of all things unholy. Blah blah blah. He’d lived five hundred years, only to live in the sewers like an animal, hiding from humankind. No one would understand him. He was dangerous. He couldn’t get close to anyone, for fear of losing control and horribly mutilating them. Blah blah blah.

    Lifting his gorgeous, smoky eyes to the world around him, Damien managed to make himself feel all the more depressed. He would never belong. He’d never feel the rain on his skin like those mortals did; never run laughing with friends out of the downpour; never stomp around in puddles like that shirtless guy over there. Damien took a moment from his brooding to stare at the shirtless guy, who was wearing nothing but a red tie and black jeans, getting soaked from head to toe, but grinning broadly.

    Weird, Damien decided, and then added despondently: At least he’s having fun. I’ll never have fun. I barely know what fun is.

    Damien sat in troubled silence for hours more, until the first signs of sunlight began to creep over the horizon. Expressionless, he lowered himself from the gravestone, into the vacant grave below. It was daylight, and time to hide away underground for a while. That whole f*cking sparkly thing really ruined his image as the tortured creature of the night.