Blood Into Blog 3

The memory of a murderer, it is a wondrous thing. Most people remember birthdays, family gatherings, or birth of children. Of course, I remember these also, see them with a floating eye, but this eye does not feel. Not as it does when I take life. When I remember those special ones, I can see their faces and I feel their blood. The slight heat that matches mine, the fading of warmth as life slips away.  Subtle difference. This is what I see, this is what I feel within my memories.

Light that forms in the eyes. Some shine with anger, some cloud with regret, others marvel in curiosity. Regardless what signs the sparks throw, I watch it fade away and each time look to another world waiting after this one. Every single sense, I touch again when I look back. The scent of fear in its purest form, just before death. The taste of the metallic blood, splattered across my lips. Nothing can escape the murderer's  memory.
  
 I could assume it is this way for all of our kind, but I cannot say. Can one assume that everybody will see through to the artistic advantage? Live and let live or take life and suffer. Yes, I suffer with each one. No matter what ecstasy may come from the most beautiful moment, death, of another person's life, I still suffer. I will always suffer, yet they do not always suffer me. I remember and I will not forget, which is more than some of those that are closest to them might offer for  their quenched prayers. I will not lay in wait for an inheritance, I will not joy at the removal of burden, and I will not stall for the final day. Out of all of this, the most important gift I can give, I will not forget.