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The Journal of Thalvek Draewyn

As your eyes adjust to the dimly lit room a degraded book captures your attention. As you slowly open up this journal, some of the pages almost disintegrate in your hands. The front cover is stained with dried blood and other...fluids. The book itself stinks of rotting flesh and inside, in scribbled handwriting you thumb through the journal entries of Thalvek Draewyn.


Today, I watched the first of my creations open its eyes. It did not cry, as one would expect of a newborn. No, this one simply stared at me, its eyes devoid of life—yet it was living, breathing. The lungs worked, the heartbeat, but the soul… the soul was missing. A minor inconvenience. What need have I for souls? Flesh and blood will do.

I have perfected the accelerated growth process. By utilizing the samples acquired through… charitable donations, I can cultivate replacements in weeks rather than decades. This will revolutionize medicine! Who cares if they scream when they wake? Who cares if they claw at the walls, begging for an existence they were never meant to have? They are merely vessels—nothing more. I disposed of the first dozen. They were… imperfect. Screaming husks that lacked form and function. But failures teach more than success, and I learn quickly. Tomorrow, I will try again. Tomorrow, they will be better. Progress demands failure and as long as lessons are learned from mistakes, it will always be progress!
They call them nurses. How quaint. They do not realize what they truly are—guardians of life and death, perfected through my genius. They are neither living nor dead, and they emit an aura that drains vitality from those around them. It is beautiful to watch. Patients grow weaker in their presence, making them all the more eager to receive my… treatments. Their creation was inspired by the funeral rites of distant lands, where the dead are preserved through sacred arts. I merely perfected the practice. These nurses do not decay. They do not hunger, nor do they tire. They are preserved in a state of perpetual living and death, sustained by the very life they drain from others. I made them to serve me. They obey without question, without fear, without compassion. They are my angels of mercy, guiding patients into a peaceful slumber… from which they will never awaken. It is better this way. Some lives are simply not worth living.
The guards were a necessary evolution. Simple flesh is too fragile, too vulnerable. I needed strength, resilience. I found my answer in the grave. The discarded remains of patients, the rejects from my experiments—no longer useless. I stitched them together, piece by piece, until they became something new. Something stronger. They are grotesque. Twisted masses of sinew and bone, fused by my hand. What things I have learned from the curator!

They wail sometimes, echoing with voices that should not exist. But they obey. Oh, how they obey. They are loyal guardians, protecting my sanctum from prying eyes. I call them Kludges, for they are amalgamations of flesh and hatred, born of my need and their misery. Some still remember their past lives. I see it in their eyes. But they are mine now. Their suffering gives them purpose. Their pain makes them obedient. Perhaps I'm not as detached from the dark lady as I'd once thought. They are perfect. No soul, no will—just flesh and bone, sculpted by my hands.
The pit is full again. My failures, my mistakes—all buried beneath the hospital, writhing and groaning in their half-lives. Their bodies fused together, limbs and organs twisted by my hand. I hear them sometimes, calling out to me. They beg for mercy, for release. How pathetic. They were never meant to live. They were experiments, nothing more. Some have gone mad, driven insane by the agony of their existence. Others have accepted their fate, awaiting the day I find a use for them. Perhaps I shall. The mass of flesh could be repurposed, refined. Their suffering need not be in vain.

Pip finds them amusing. He watches them, taunts them. I let him. It keeps him busy, and it reminds me of my success and failures with him. These creatures are proof of my brilliance. They are my failures, yes, but also my triumphs. They are the steppingstones on my path to perfection. Someday, I shall create life—true life, without flaw or pain. Until then, the graveyard will continue to grow, and my experiments will continue. Progress demands sacrifice. And I am willing to pay the price for progress. All is as intended and all I can say is "Praise Bhita!".


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