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.