Alive for too long

Death.

It was so cold. Gripping his heart. Making it stop. Holding him in it's cold arms, until he could feel no cold no more. Until he could feel nothing at all, until he was nothing.

He had been there countless times, but it always left him feeling weak and fragile. Alone and alien. There was something profoundly wrong with coming back from the dead. Not that he could reflect on it while being dead. But that short instance, when blood came rushing back to his brain and he was gasping for air, time seemed to move like syrup. Slow and honey colored the world returned to him. These short seconds provided him with long enough time to question his existence.

He had tried to change. He tried so hard. He tried to change the world, and the humans in it. Oh, how he tried. But in the end everything always reverted back. Nothing good would last. You can change a human, but never humanity. As for himself, well, at one point he just gave up, and in this he learned to accepting himself for what he was. Whatever that was. Things became so much easier.  The spite and the scorn, his inhuman thoughts, and the killing.

The killing.
When he was younger he never imagined that he would enjoy killing another human being. But the older he got, the more shit the world threw at him and at itself, the more he became aware of his predatory instincts. Now a days he hardly considered himself human. Humans. So shallow, alive one day, dead the next. Oh, yes, he died as well,  but unlike him they could stay in the emptiness, be like they were when they were unborn. That was a luxury he could not get. He had to return to the living world, with it's dirt and violence and hatred.

And he returned.