Hall and Life

I am Hall. My name will remain secret, for no one can know it. It belongs to me, I claim all rights to it, and I kill anyone who speaks my name. I am the one who kills. I am a hunter who preys at night, by the sole light of a treacherous moon—a dead star. I will tell you here what made me what I am. Listen carefully—everyone who knows this story influences it. In this story, I will not tell you my name; I would have to kill you.

***

Why am I a beast? I have been searching for the answer to this question for months. I will not tell you the exact number of them; you will find out for yourself, but not from my lips. They do not speak specifics, you must remember that. That is why they do not speak my name, otherwise I would have to kill you.

Almost every evening, hours after the sun has decided to die, I leave my lair and wander the blood-stained streets. This happens quite often, though you may not believe it. I know, you'll smile, just a little, like you always do. You'll do it because you won't believe me. When my mentors aren't home, for various reasons—collecting primogen, tending to the domain's affairs—that doesn't interest me. I'm just a night wanderer. Sometimes, when the fear of the blackness of night doesn't pierce my dead heart, I have the courage to wander further, even to the entrance to life itself. I reach out longingly with a cold hand, but at the last moment I resist, hold back. I scold myself. I mutilate myself.

But this is now, it was yesterday, it will be tomorrow. I know this. I simply know, it happens to you too. Life isn't mathematics—logical explanations aren't always appropriate. And there's no room for them here. If I were looking for a simple solution, I'd say its foundations lie in another science. Perhaps chemistry. The thing is, my dear, I don't intend to glue it all together into a single picture. Perhaps the pieces of the puzzle are torn apart, never creating a single, coherent illustration.

I wanted to tell you about myself. But don't expect anything extraordinary, because, in the end, everything I had to tell you, I've already told you. If you've been listening carefully, you know what I'm talking about. It's simple, you know that.

***

I tend to divide existence, broadly speaking, into two kinds: real existence and alleged existence. That's my terminology, don't frown. In any case, I'll tell you about both existences I've experienced, and, after all, I'm also experiencing one of them now. You know which one.

Real existence was gray. I remember it well. Every morning, as the sun rose, bathed in blood, I looked out the window and sighed—the same trees, the same street, the same people. Back then, I didn't have the habit of believing in God. He didn't interfere with anything, he created our meaningless existences, then left us and went on to create new, more interesting ones. To this day, I maintain that here, this world, which you call by many different names, is merely a land forgotten by God. But something happened that made me perceive it completely differently. The gray trees transformed into life, gleaming with lush greenery. The street became an artery, pumping positive feelings. And I found my life.

You know, nothing lasts forever. Life ends at some point and passes away, leaving behind a small trace and memory, memories. It's really not much. You'll see for yourself when it leaves you too. Leaving it doesn't matter. Because when you willingly leave life, you don't have to feel sorry for it. Oh no. It's worse when it leaves you. And it will leave you many times. Only then will you feel bad. Believe me.

What am I getting at? You haven't understood yet. Only now do I see the difference between us. A large gap that prevents us from coming to terms with ourselves and talking about simple things. This gap is an obstacle… perhaps the only one. It's extraordinary. I remember that my life introduced me to the real world. A world in which I am forced to live to this day, but in a different form. It's extraordinary that back then, at the very beginning, I was the one who had to learn from life. And now? I don't take advantage of it. Everything I could get out of it, I already have with me, now they're feeding in freedom. Do you know what I mean? No. It's ridiculous. Back then, I groveled like a worm, but now I look down on it. I'm full of pride and disappointment.

I've become disillusioned with life. I tasted its sweetness when it flourished. I felt bitterness when everything began to wither. And it slowly lost its will to exist, forcing me to suffer and remain in uncertainty. It gave me false hope. I believed there was still a chance to save my life. But no. Like everyone else, you're born to eventually die. It's perfect proof that nothing lasts forever… with a few exceptions. Disappointment and regret. They last forever, and you can't convince me otherwise. My dear, you won't convince me otherwise. I've existed longer than you, I know what I'm talking about.

How long has it been? I told you there would be no specifics. Maybe six hundred years, maybe more. I don't know. Frankly, I don't care. Why should I? Ha! I can't worry about the past. It's a sign of weakness and suffering. And Hall can't suffer. After all, his heart is cold, he feels nothing. Life has abandoned him, and he's learned to exist without it. Simple, right? All he needs is the will.

Some time ago, though, I felt warmth. How can that be? I say to myself. It's impossible! I don't believe it! You can't afford it! And indeed, I can't. I simply feel the warmth of life sometimes. A momentary one, like a shiver running through my body, then it fades and I forget what I felt. And I can never remember. Maybe it's a curse, maybe a blessing. I don't know. I don't care.

I can only tell you that nonlife has its advantages. Look, I'm not limited by the material world; I don't have to worry about it. And life? I don't worry about it either, why should I? I won't destroy it with my actions, because it no longer exists for me. At least the life that once was. Now there's none. And I'm happy with that. Because, as a wise man once said, "life is the punishment for nonexistence," right? I've already served my punishment.

On the other hand, life equals memory. Back then, I knew what I felt; my heart was pumping real blood. Now it stands dead and cold. No, my dear. You stay as you are. I wouldn't want you to become a cold monster like me. It's a waste of your feelings. It's a waste of your life. And you won't sacrifice it for me. I don't want that. Neither of us wants that.

***

I open the window, the wind whips against me, my hair flows loosely. I look around and jump out. I sniff. There's no blood nearby. No life. Sometimes I wake from sleep, a rage takes hold of me, a beast enters me, and I run out into the street in search of food. Sometimes I control myself, sometimes not. I know I'm hungry now. So I run, heading towards my old life, maybe I'll find it. I feel panic all around me. I run faster and faster, I catch up, I reach out, but I stop it, then slap myself in the face. Fool! You died with life.