• I am the queen of the damned, the queen of MY damned. Every crying soul begs me for something new and I can feel it sinking into my pores like acid. They scream for forgiveness, for salvation, a horrid and intense litany that burns me to the depths of my frozen and inebriated heart, barely beating and lucid. We are all dead here, all choking on eternal agony that leaves crystal tear streaks down our faces and our chest and tongues clenched as we struggle through our pain.
    Their hands reach out for a token of comfort, for a modicum of reliefe that I cannot seem to offer. The Damned crush down upon me in my kindom of the deceased, my rotting necropolis. They wrap tight around me in a chilling embrace that bruises my body, sucks the life from every fiber of my howling muscles. The Damned sense my weakness and feed upon my strength like a thousand leeches, ragged teeth ripping apart my flesh, the tearing of skin palpable in the frigid land of the eternal dead. Here we linger, dead and gone, still hauntingly close to you. Can you feel the teeth at your flesh? The clamy hands grasping at you and the dried blood staining your shirt isn't a dream; it is real. And I, the queen of the damned, lead them closer.