The Thirteenth Hour

When the clock struck thirteen I came alive for the second time. I unearthed myself from damp soil. I listened for a sound. Any sound. I do not know what I was looking for.

I was aware. Aware of everything around me.

When the clock struck thirteen my heart died a terrible death. It burst and brought with it such agony that I became mad instantly. Heat raged through my body as my blood froze within myself. I clutched at my chest with one hand as I used the other to lift myself from the ground.

I was in pain. Horrific pain. Still, I was aware.

When the clock struck thirteen, I breathed for the last time. There was no oxygen in the air that I inhaled. My chest did not rise or fall. I was a statue, made from skin and bones. I clutched my throat and tried to make a sound. Nothing came. Not a whimper. Not a shout.

I choked on nothing. I was stale and empty. Yet, I was aware.

When the clock struck thirteen, I lifted my head to the night and saw whatever I could see. I surveyed my surroundings including myself. I was ragged. Dirty from my struggle. I had wounds. Holes in my body where there should not be.

I was confused. Disorientated. Still, I was aware.

As the final chime sounded on the thirteenth hour, I struggled to gain my balance. My gait was sloppy, yet purposeful. I called out into the night, yet the noise was not a noise at all. I heard it in my head, but to the outside world, it was nothing but an odd sound that is dismissed as soon as it's heard.

I was not human. But, I was aware. And I was hungry.