Rage.

Uncontrollable anger. It's explosive, overpowering, like a heartache in your chest. It doesn't stop, it has no mind, it simple flows like wild fire. It wipes every bit of sense from your mind, like storm, like a disease. It is the instinct to kill in it's purest form and once it catches your spirit you can't escape. Rage, it's like fire in your bones, it boils your blood and rips your soul in two. It is insanity, clawing at the depths of your mind, always present but never coherent enough to make sense.

Until you loose control.
Until you loose your sanity.

There's blood on your hands.

And bodies at your feet.

The taste of blood, the need for blood, the heavy breath and the smell of fear. It's all you know, and all you need. And the darkness that closes in around you marks the beginning of the end. Of the chaotic destruction of madness. He can feel it eating at his flesh, the dirt and decay filling in his nose. His senses are blocked, and he's drowning in the ground. For eternity there was nothing but fire, fire and darkness and everything hell. It was like Dante's Inferno, burning at his flesh for long enough to strip the bone but never kill him. And he recovered quick enough to be burnt again. A thousand years of torture, a thousand seconds of hell. He fought through it all, and all the while his rage boiled, his anger surged, into potential. Into insanity.

He is twisted. Disgusting. He's dead.

Yet through the darkness came a light, a light tainted with blood, a hand with a sick face at the end, and a twisted smile to match. A soft voice commanding him to rise, to stand forth. His task was not complete, his life had ended and his death was to begin. His master calls, his master beckons, because there is work to be done, and the demon in his blood can not sleep forever. He was murdered, beaten bloody, his life was ripped from him, and after a lifetime in hell he is being set free. All his power, all his anger, held on the end of a chain, wielded by her and her alone. Cobain, her hellhound.

He feel's alive, only for a moment, but life is unforgiving and with one desperate breath he resurfaces from the pain and the agony before the plunge once again. You are still dead Cobain, still damned for all eternity, remember that.

You were a coward.
You have no strength.
You ran, when fighting would have benefited.

Now you are merely a pawn. You will have no peace, there will be no peace for you, you sickening chaotic fool.

The first thing he feels is...nothing. He is numb, there is no air in his lungs, even though he opens his mouth to breath, there is no ground beneath him, even though he can see the dirt with his own two eyes. There is no wind on his skin, although he can see it moving the dust around him. He is dead. There is no satisfaction for him.

Then rage.

Uncontrollable anger, a force of utter destruction. He was rage. And his rage was strong. He could smell the blood, he could taste it in his mouth. And then he turned his eyes, soulless and dead, towards his master, his mistress of death. He is filled with hatred, and yet like the dog he is he knows that he will bend to the will she sets forth. He was a pawn.

Scarlet eyes open from that memory, of the day he had been changed into the loathsome monster he is. He had hated himself in life, and he despised himself even more in death. Cobain was a worthless scrap on the face of the planet, but no more wretched and pathetic as all the others that made their way around. The mortals, content to know they will die, the immortals content to know they will see time pass without any great significance, and all the rest of them. Each one of them as sick and twisted as the next, they just may not show their hateful emotions on their sleeves like the red eyed boy does. They are better at concealing, dreaming of torturous thoughts when they sleep soundly in their beds. Only difference is Cobain's life is what they dream of, what haunts their nightmares. A real live embodiment.

His pair of crimson eyes recognize the area he finds himself in. He was close now. It had been far too long since he had walked these streets, far too long indeed, and yet he is untouched by age, despite the century he has now lived. Jet black hair is near invisible in the night air, as onyx as a starless sky. The obsidian haired boy continues to move down the street, unbothered by any, the streets are nearly empty. Only occasionally does he pass another headed in the same direction as he, perhaps to the same place, he can tell by the stretch of them that they too are dead, lifeless corpses forced to roam. Cobain had stopped wondering long ago if others like him had been contained to the same fate. To answer to one voice undeniably so, however much he despised the one that made him, he will still follow her loyally until she one day asks him to end himself, which the vampire boy was sure to know that his death was essentially, inevitable end to all of this torturous labor. She would not allow him to live any amount of time out from underneath the metaphorical thumb she has placed upon him, tallying his moves, relentless orders and instructions. He followed like the pathetic dog he was. And how he hated himself for it. But no more than he hated anyone else or anything else mind you. He was just an eternal shell, with lacking of human emotions. Rage. Hate. Disgust. It was all he had left, filling the cracks and holes until he was no longer Cobain, but simply disdain and death.

Letting his hatred lead him like some twisted form of a guiding light, the black haired hell child finds himself at the last place he wanted to be: Syn. The paleness of his skin from never seeing sun practically glows in the moonlight, dulled only by the redness of his scarlet eyes, raven hair hidden within the dark. He reaches fist out to the door and knocks.

Master, your obedient puppy has returned home.