I am no one. I am nothing.

My existence is a curse that must be kept hidden, though doing so causes me unyielding torment. I've wished to end this suffering more times than I can count. I don't mean death. That's not possible for someone like me.

A man without a soul cannot die.

I am a Soulless, an immortal abomination, created by the greed and hunger of one like me. I can never escape what I am. There are ways, however, to rid myself of the pain I am forced to endure, the pain of a monster within trying to break free. All I must do is give that monster what it yearns for—the soul of another.

Its warmth would fill my emptiness. I long for it. I’ve contemplated the act numerous times, going over in my mind how it might happen.

I would select a criminal who deserves no mercy, yet grants him a swift and painless death. As his soul left his body and soared toward the great afterlife, I’d simply snatch it and make it my own. This method, the most common among my kind, dilutes much of the soul's warmth and power, though I suppose it is the most humane. The thought almost makes me laugh. There is nothing humane about it. And one soul is never enough. The hunger burns continuously.

The other way to obtain a soul is the way mine was taken. The intended victim is rendered helpless while his soul is ripped out of his body. The process, as I’ve experienced for myself, is excruciating, yet guarantees maximum potency from the soul since the victim is alive when it happens. The greedy Soulless gets what he wants and, should the victim survive, a new Soulless is born.

The idea repulses me. I could never do that to someone else. Instead, I force myself to live with the pain, all the while wishing for an end. The conflict is eternal.

I’m a man dying of thirst, who stumbles upon a well of poisoned water. To drink is to die. If I give in to my desire, I will become something I loathe above all else. I would be no better than the vile creature that created me. I may be a monster, but I don’t have to act the part. I refuse to.

The reason? I ask myself every day. Perhaps I’ve retained a tiny portion of humanity; a form of compassion or guilt. A conscience. As far as I know, I’m the only Soulless who has ever resisted.

I like to think I was an honorable man before the change and perhaps that's why I've been able to fight. Unfortunately, I have no memory of my former life. No name, no recollection of identity or family. Even the details of the moment my soul was taken are a blur, all except the excruciating pain. Such a thing will never be forgotten. There are times when I awaken from my dark, hollow slumber consumed by the same fire, the same horror. I've conditioned myself to not cry out anymore.

I am alone with my aching emptiness. I will always have this craving, this longing to be whole again. But the soul I truly desire is my own.