The man sits on the desolate ground, watching fleetingly as the young, happy, alive children duck beneath the loose chains of the swings.

He wishes beyond anything he could remember being like that; free, without worry and without fear of the sun. What is to everyone else an enjoyable part of nature, is to him more than a mere nuisance. It is the single object which dictates whether he lives or dies.

The pale skin on the back of his hand starts to heat up uncomfortably, and he tries to prepare himself for what is about to happen. He isnt scared, surprisingly, he wants this over. He wants this farce of an existense to end. He loathes having to pierce human flesh to resustain his body with the fluid it runs on, he hates not being able to form relationships because inevitably everyone leaves him to survive for centuries, he despises having to hide in the dark like an undesirable.

But what he hates most of all is the sun, though he welcomes it to do the job he requires now.

It burns.

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