corrina's diary

corrina page is a fictional character made up entirely in my imagination. any resemblance to real people, places, and/or things is completely coincidental and should be taken as such.

WARNING: The following may contain adult oriented material.

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with open arms and a smiling countenance i embrace you, awaiting the moment when i can plunge my canines into the soft flesh of your throat and initiate you into my world...

corrina page

august 1, 1999

august begins. soon i will shed my skin. except for the first year, i have done so every august since my rebirth. it will be a painful month.

last night i brought home another stranger. a homeless stranger with beautiful eyes. his stench made me incredibly nauseaus, but i took him home and bathed him carefully. i was very gentle and washed every crevice and every crack with a soft soapy sponge. he watched me silently with his large eyes, green and clear like a pond.

the water was black when we were done and i filled the tub again with clean water so i could continue rubbing him with the sponge. his skin was wrinkled but he was finally clean. his eyes continued to watch. his cheeks were hollow, and his body thin, but his hands were strong. through his index finger i drew out his life. i left him lying in the tub - the pink water, his clear eyes and large hands were a soothing sight and i did not want to disturb his peace.

august 2, 1999

i feel stifled. my skin is so dry. so dry. here it begins. the long drawn out process. i don't know how i will be able to take this for the month. somebody scratch me please.

august 8, 1999

i've been a deadened sleepwalker all my life and now i bolt awake with a searing in my heart. a salty mixture of sweat and tears covers my face and i cough up dust across the bed. your arms have finally left me and i am alone. now i shall live, awakened out of complacency, my safety net gone.

august 11, 1999

here is a tale i tell my child: deep in the hooded forest lies a man in wait. ebony hair and skin like milk. his nails are long and pointed like mine. he cannot control their growth. razor sharp like a predator's claws - isn't that what they are after all?

like a fog, thick and blinding, he descends on me with his teeth bared like a wolf and his eyes large like two moons glaring through the night. i cannot move for i'm hypnotized. hungry within and sleepy without, i fall silently and heavily. he bares my chest with a slice of a finger through the black cloth - i'm dressed for ritual. chanting softly, rhythmically, he lulls me into deeper silence - is there such a thing? he wields his hands like knives and slashes a wound across my chest, up between the breasts - one half of an X. the other half is less painful and complete. the blood that pours out of me covers the grass and soaks my clothes. i lie with my eyes open and my heart bare, an echo in my throat i cannot release.

here, i open my blouse and show my child the scar. the tissue is swollen and raised and looks more like a burn than a cut. the wound has long healed, but it throbs like a heartbeat and i feel him within me. i am his prisoner, his light. he is my god.

august 12, 1999

music has been my escape the last few days. silence weighs like lead on me. like a dead person's weight - heavy and unmoving. dear god, please don't let me think. my mind wanders and i feel shadows creep into my brain. when the sun sets i awake. when the sun rises i sleep like the dead that fill my hollow body.

on the desk in front of me sits a picture. a polaroid of the past. into this i stare and pinch myself for i am dreaming. dementia in is my blood. passion leaks like melting ice. and my veins are full of poison. the needle in the crook of my arm looks like a sewing needle. i must sew up the hole. i must sew up the gaping hole that hoards the souls of the past and soon to be future. i cringe in fear. nothingness beckons me.

august 17, 1999

a blond haired blue eyed baby. i dream of a blond haired blue eyed baby. and of drinking its blood and eating its eyes. these last few days have been torturously long. i sleep in a bed of dead skin and dream wicked dreams.

it has been hard for me to feed this month with my skin in the condition it's in. shedding seems a long and arduous process. i have had to resort to the barely living that reside and reek in dark alleys. their bodies soaked with urine, feces caked between their legs, mouths filled with the stench of rotten, decaying animals, like death.

in some ways, they are an ideal meal. but their blood makes me sick and weak and it does not help my already attenuated position. i feed quickly and brutally. their sickness makes me angry and violent. i shred their clothes with my adamantine nails and tear their skin and flesh and prod for bones. i look for shiny, wet bones, scraping away the meat. i just want to look. and maybe touch. i don't mean to hurt them as much as i do.

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