Welcome to my Sick, Twisted World!

October 15, 20XX.

Yeah, that’s right. A diary. Go ahead and laugh if you want—like I give a shit. I guess you could say this is my way of making sure someone knows who I am before the world burns. So, who am I? My name’s Vincent Cooper, and if you’re reading this, congrats—you’ve found the inside of my fucked-up head. You might regret it, though. I’m not like other people. I look like a regular 16-year-old with jet-black hair, a nose ring, and a badass tongue piercing, but trust me—that’s where the “normal” ends. My eyes glow this freaky orange, like I’m a demon walking straight outta Hell, which... well, I kinda am. Half-demon, half-human. A cambion. Lucky me. Let’s start with the fun stuff: My tongue? Long, blackish-purple, and pierced because why not make the monster look cooler, right? My teeth? Sharp as hell—yellow and nasty like a dog that eats roadkill. I belch out flames because my breath smells so bad it’s literally flammable. Yeah, imagine blowing out birthday candles and setting the fucking cake on fire. That’s my life. I’ve got powers too, like telekinesis and pyrokinesis. I can move shit with my mind, snap my fingers to light a flame, or make myself bigger or more jacked with just a snap of my fingers. Not gonna lie, I usually try to impress the girls with the last two powers, which never fucking works.. sons of bitches. And when the full moon rises or when people piss me off? That’s when things really get wild. I turn into this huge, jet-black dog with glowing yellow-orange eyes and drool thick, nasty green-grey ectoplasm. People in this shitty little town call me the Black Dog of Redhill or when I'm in my "normal" form, the Teenager from Hell, which I think is badass! It’s the one thing they get right. I love watching them tremble when I prowl the streets. Now, my family? Don’t even get me started. I fucking hate them. My step-dad, James, is a giant tool who acts like he can tell me what to do. Spoiler: He can’t. And his little gremlin of a daughter, Ava, is the most annoying brat on the planet. Torturing her with my powers is the only way I stay sane around here. She cries, James yells, I laugh—everyone plays their part. The only one who doesn’t suck is Madison, my mom. She’s religious as hell, always reading the Bible and quoting scripture, but somehow, she gets me. When I’m about to snap, she’ll stroke my hair, whisper some verse, and make the anger go away. I hate that she can do that to me. Makes me feel weak. But it’s the only time I don’t feel like setting the whole world on fire. So yeah, that’s me. Vincent Cooper, half-demon, full-time asshole. I don’t expect you to like me. Hell, I don’t even like me most of the time. But this is who I am, and if you can’t handle that? Well, tough shit. I’ll be out there, waiting for the next full moon, ready to tear things up. Welcome to my world. You’re gonna hate it here.

October 16, 20XX

I’m still trying to wrap my head around what just happened. I’m sitting here, shirt soaked with this thick, nasty sludge of my own drool—greenish-grey, sticky as hell—and I don’t even remember how it got like this. One minute I’m pissed off, ready to tear everything apart, and the next… it’s like someone flipped a switch in my brain and I’m just… blank. It’s always like this when Mom does her thing. She came in while I was raging, like she always does. I don’t even know why she bothers; you’d think by now she’d have learned to stay out of the way when I’m about to lose it. But she doesn’t. She starts stroking my hair, whispering those Bible verses, saying that I’m safe, that I’m okay, and I just… I don’t know, I shut down. It’s like my body goes limp and my mind just drifts off somewhere else. I don’t even remember what I was mad about in the first place. Could’ve been five minutes, could’ve been an hour—I have no clue. And now that it’s over, I’m sitting here calmer than I’ve been in weeks. There’s this weird sense of relief, like all the anger that was burning me up inside has been put out for the moment. I hate it. But at the same time… I don’t? I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like I’m grateful she’s there to drag me out of that rage, but also furious that she can do that to me. Part of me wants to rip her hands away when she starts stroking my hair, wants to snarl in her face and tell her to leave me the hell alone. But then she whispers those words and something in me just gives up. The anger melts away and I’m left feeling… hollow. Empty. Like whatever demon I had inside me decided to take a nap. And the worst part is, I’m not even sure if it’s a good thing or not. I hate that she can turn me into this child-like version of myself, sitting there all dazed and drooling like a baby. But when it’s happening… it feels like there’s a part of me that’s relieved. Like I’m too tired of fighting and I just want to rest. I guess I should be glad she’s there, that someone actually gives a damn whether I burn down this house or not. But it also pisses me off that I need her to calm me down. I don’t want to rely on anyone, especially not her. Yet here I am, in this gross, slimy mess, feeling calmer than I’ve been in forever. I’m torn. Part of me wants to push her away, but the other part just wants to close my eyes and listen to her whispers forever. Guess I’m screwed either way.

October 19, 20XX

Yeah, I know. Saint Vincent. That’s what Mom named me after—Saint Vincent of Saragossa, some martyr who got tortured to death for his faith. Real inspiring, right? I bet she hoped that maybe naming me after some holy guy would do me some good. But here’s the thing—I’m no saint. I never was, never will be. I’m way closer to the Devil than some blessed martyr. In my head, I’m not just Vincent Cooper. I’m the Morningstar. The Morningstar. The Emperor. And my throne? It’s built from the ashes of every miserable soul who dared to get in my way. I daydream about it all the time, like when I’m stuck in school, bored out of my mind, listening to some dumbass teacher drone on about history or math like any of it matters. I imagine snapping my fingers, setting the whole place ablaze, and marching out of the smoke like a goddamn conqueror. Just think about it—walking through the halls with flames licking the walls, people screaming and running while I laugh. I’d give myself a crown made of their fear. And why stop at just a school? Why not the entire world? I picture it sometimes—me standing atop a mountain of rubble, flames burning bright around me, the sky dark and red like blood. I’d make the earth my playground. Cities would crumble at my feet. Nations would bow or be burned to the ground. The streets would be filled with statues of me—Emperor Vincent, the Morningstar, ruler of a world gone to hell. I’d keep the executions public. Why let ‘em die quietly? Nah, that’s too easy. I’d make examples out of anyone who defied me. Tie them up in the middle of the square, watch them tremble while I breathe fire into the air, let them know that their last moments are all because they had the balls to challenge me. The screams, the panic—it’d all be music to my ears. They’d learn to love the sound of my name, or else they’d learn to fear it. Either way, I win. Sometimes I imagine dragging James out in front of the whole town, making him beg for his life, just to watch him squirm. I’d make Ava watch, too, let her see what happens when you cross the Emperor. Her tears wouldn’t save him. Hell, they’d only make it sweeter. I’d grin and say, “This is what happens to traitors,” and then burn him alive while she screamed. Call me a monster all you want—I’d embrace it. Monsters get shit done. I guess that’s why I like calling myself the Morningstar in my head. It’s the name of Lucifer, right? The original rebel. The one who didn’t bend the knee. That’s me. I’m not interested in redemption or some holy path. I’d rather be feared than worshipped any day. Let the world tremble when they hear my name. I’d make sure they never forget who rules over this hellhole. Mom would probably cry if she knew I had thoughts like this. She’d start reciting scripture, saying I could still be saved, that God forgives all, blah blah blah. But she doesn’t get it. I like the darkness. I like the way it feels to imagine the world burning at my command. Maybe I wasn’t born for greatness like some saint—but I was definitely born for something. So yeah, Saint Vincent can stay in the past. I’m Vincent Cooper, the Morningstar. Emperor of a world that doesn’t even know it’s mine yet. And when the time comes, I’ll make damn sure they know exactly who’s in charge.

March 7, 20XX

I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me today, but I can’t stop thinking about Shadow. Yeah, Shadow. My old wolf plush. The one I had since I was a goddamn toddler. The one Mom gave me for my first birthday. The one that was always with me when I was a kid, sitting on my bed, tucked under my arm, like a little guardian. And now? Gone. I don’t know when the hell I lost him. I don’t remember throwing him away. I don’t remember stuffing him in some forgotten box. But I sure as fuck don’t have him now, and that realization hit me like a truck today. One minute, I was just lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and the next, I was thinking about that damn wolf—about how soft and worn-out he was, how his little stitched-up nose was barely hanging on, how his fur smelled like my old room. And then came the worst part—the gnawing, aching, sickening thought that maybe Mom got rid of him. Maybe she thought I didn’t need him anymore. Maybe she just gave him away. And holy shit, that thought made my blood fucking boil. I’m not going to ask her. No fucking way. I’d rather set my own tongue on fire than let her see me weak like that. But at the same time… goddammit, I miss him. And now I’m sitting here, writing this, and my face is hot, and my goddamn eyes are burning, and—fuck. Fuck. I just looked in the mirror, and I’m crying again. Not normal tears, obviously. The blood. Thick, red streaks running down my face like I’m some kind of gothic horror freak show. Because of a fucking plush wolf. What the hell is wrong with me? I could go up to the attic. I could search for him, dig through old boxes, hope he’s buried somewhere beneath all the other useless shit Mom keeps. But I won’t. Because if I look, and I don’t find him, then it’s real. Then I know for sure that he’s gone forever, and I can’t handle that. So I guess I’ll just sit here, bleeding out of my eyes like some pathetic mess, thinking about my childhood, about Shadow, about the fact that I used to hug that stupid little wolf when I was scared or lonely or pissed off. And now I don’t even have that anymore. Fuck today.

March 14, 20XX

Today was another hell of a day. Same old crap, different date. Got detention again because Mrs. Danvers couldn't handle a little fire trick in class. I barely even lit the corner of my notebook, and she acted like I set the whole school ablaze. Idiots. If they knew what I was really capable of, they'd piss themselves. I guess it doesn’t help that every time I open my mouth, I smell like a gas station explosion. Not my fault my breath is flammable, but hey, maybe I'll use it to burn down that dump one day. Wouldn’t be a big loss. James decided to get in my face again about "respect" and "being a part of the family." That jackass doesn’t get it—never will. He’s not my dad, and he never will be. I don’t owe him anything. When he tried to corner me in the kitchen, I let a little fire slip out with a belch. Scared the hell out of him. The look on his face was priceless. Wish I could've taken a picture to show Ava. Not that she’d appreciate the humor—stupid brat would probably just cry to Mommy. Speaking of Ava, that little troll tried to follow me around again, asking why I never play with her. God, I hate her voice. Used my telekinesis to knock her ice cream off the cone. She wailed, and James came running in, all protective. Whatever. I’m not here to babysit her. Sometimes I think they just wish I’d disappear. Joke’s on them—I’m not going anywhere. If anything, I’ll stick around just to make them all as miserable as they’ve made me. But then there’s Mom… Madison. The only person I can halfway stand, even if she’s always got her Bible in hand like it’s gonna save my damned soul. She tried to calm me down after the kitchen incident, stroking my hair and whispering scripture. I swear I wanted to scare her away—started growling, letting the drool flow thick like sludge, dripping all over the place. I could’ve snapped and grown into that beast right there in the living room, but her voice… it just got through to me, like always. Ended up on the floor, curled up like some damn wounded animal. Hate it when that happens. I’m supposed to be stronger than this.

July 1, 20XX

Ava had the nerve to hide in my room this morning. She thought she was being sneaky, trying to catch a glimpse of me while I was changing. Hell no. I flicked my wrist, and bam—she was pinned to the ceiling. She cried like a baby, thrashing around. I let her hang there for a while, just to make her squirm. James came running in, trying to act all heroic again. I dropped her right before he reached her—just to see if he'd catch her in time. He did. Shame. Would’ve been hilarious if he didn’t. James lost his temper and tried to get in my face. Said I need to “act like a big brother.” I just laughed at him, snapped my fingers, and lit the cigarette dangling from my lips. The look on his face—he was torn between yelling and being scared I'd light the whole house on fire. I left him there, just walked out. Nothing he could say that I’d actually give a damn about. Mom got home late from church, and of course, James filled her in on my little “incident” with Ava. She came into my room to talk. I told her to leave me alone, but she just kept going on and on about forgiveness and love and other crap. Then she started stroking my hair, and damn it, I could feel the anger starting to melt away. It’s not fair how she can just… do that. I tried fighting it, growling like a cornered animal, drooling that disgusting ectoplasm all over her hand. She didn’t even flinch, just kept whispering that everything was going to be okay. I hate it. I hate how she can calm me down like that. I should be able to stay mad, to stay in control. But she always finds a way to strip it from me.

July 10, 20XX

Full moon tonight. Can't even describe how alive I feel when it rises. The rage just… explodes, and all I want to do is prowl. That’s exactly what I did. Transformed the second the moon peeked through the clouds and tore out of the house before anyone could stop me. The streets of Redhill were empty—perfect for a little “midnight stroll.” Sometimes, I think people can sense when I’m out there, like they just know to stay out of my way. I left a trail of ectoplasm across the sidewalks, left claw marks on fences, shattered a couple of car windows just for the hell of it. If they wanna call me the Black Dog of Redhill, I might as well give 'em something to talk about, right? Even had a run-in with some idiot teenagers who thought it'd be cool to “hunt the monster.” They didn’t realize that the monster was hunting them. I let 'em get a good look before growling low, dripping that foul-smelling slime from my jaws. They ran off screaming. Weaklings. Still, part of me wishes I could just… not be like this. Just once. But who am I kidding? This is what I am, what I was made to be. There’s no escaping it. And that's fine by me.