We hunt. It’s in our blood, what we were created for. Our makers live vicariously through our eyes, through our bodies, our movements. I’ve been this way so long I no longer fight it. All the fight has left. Resisting the urge or allowing the urge to flow made no difference to the pure delight of the kill, or the torture followed by the tender feast.
It’s not like I claimed some use for my dead body. It’s not clear to me if they know I’m still attached to it. They are cruel enough to know and still use us. I’ve seen into their hearts over the years and there’s nothing there. Likely packed away so it can do no harm to their master plans.
What I dread are these lucid moments. Everyone in the pack has them, and they happen daily. Sometimes we all experience it together, sometimes it’s individual. The glossiness of our black eyes retreats, and the blank mask of our faces animate. We can mouth words, but our voices aren’t ours to command. We can read lips if we happen to share language. Two others in my pack used to speak english as I did. It fosters a bond between us we don’t share with the others.
We’ve never smelled another pack, or found any evidence. As far as we know, we are the only ones on Earth. We stay hidden. Food is plentiful nearby, and in these moments I know that means a city.
The horrific thing is we are each reminded of our alive life with chores. My body knows it’s time to do the laundry, and I feel the call of the riverbank. It’s the beginning of my lucid time, this mundane chore.
There are no sheets, no clothes, no towels in our pack existance. There is no reason for my undead body to pretend to do this ridiculous task, for me to remember I hated laundry during life. Every day anew, it’s like I rediscover I’m cursed to do laundry, until the knowledge washes over me. I’ve had these thoughts before, the memory of what I am.
It’s not even real laundry with a sense of accomplishment – no pile of clean fresh things at the end. Just a half hour of pretend washboard use, imagining the suds, and the feel of cotton between my fingers, wet and clingy.
Maybe this nightmare of a chore is my penance. Why would it be so much worse than the murder I commit? Can I claim it’s me who commits these murders? Why does going through the motions of laundry feel more evil than eating?
Why am I here, inside this body?
Kary's Nightmare Fuel 
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