Give me your grace, your naive love, your blundering mind. Give me your humanity. I have lost mine. You want something from me, reader; else you would not continue to peer so ardently through this veil of depreciating words in search of it. Do you want a story? I can give you plenty; for once, I was a girl who grew into a woman. You want blood? That’s something I will give you. Do you want tears? That’s a thing I’ll offer. Romance? I can provide that, too. But, precious reader, if you are looking for love, that I cannot provide you; not in full, not in half, not in part, not in time, not in reality, not in fantasy. I ask you to love me, reader, because I cannot love the creature that I am. I cannot love what I have become. Allow me to be frank. I am a killer. Every moment of my existence depends on that very fact. It is a very monstrous simplicity, this. I would call it living, but what we are and what we do cannot be called life at all. It is survival, a necessary evil we all must face. Reader, I don’t expect you to understand. What I expect is that you stay with me through this labyrinth of blood and history and that you do not lose sight of me down a long shadowed path. For this maze of memory is a dangerous place to wander alone. It is quite possible, mortal reader, to lose yourself here in my memories and succumb to madness. I know it. I’ve seen it. Do not hark to the beckoning of phantoms and monsters that haunt these cold, desolate pathways nor be seduced by the many tempters who may sing exquisitely in your ear. Do not go looking for what is meant to be unknown. Should you find yourself wandering astray, do not expect any dashing hero to save you. And do not ever say you weren’t warned. My name is Rachel Huntsman and I am not here to save you.
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