Death

Not done just jotted down a thought

It doesn't sleep
It doesn't feel
It doesn't laugh or cry
All it dusk till dawn
Is make the soldiers die

Eric limped through the streets clutching his torn cloak. People shrank away from him knowing who, what he was. In the whispers he heard " cursed" , "daemon" "monster". Lowering his gaze Eric continued. He knew what they said were true. These transformations could not be controlled, could not be helped. It was a curse of his blood line, the curse of shame, that he carried from his ancestors betraying the witch doctors. Turning the corner, Eric neared his destination. A small resturant. The door swung open and a man drunkenly stumbled out and glanced towards Eric. The man's stare darted away in fear as he clumsily made an escape. A sigh escaped Eric's lips as he slid through the door. A thud echoed the now empty establishment as the waitress approached him.