The Nightmare, by Henry Fuseli (1781)
When I was fifteen years old I watched my father sink his knife into the chest of a young woman at our family's altar. Having seen the things she had done, and knowing what she intended to do, all I could feel was a deep sense of relief. The last of the demons was gone.
I descend from a long line of demon hunters. Further back than we can recall my family has waged war on beings that only we can see. Shadows of humanity, born from an unknown source. Undying and unyielding they haunted humanity for many millenia. To my knowledge my family is one of a kind in our ability to see and interact with them, though I haven't looked too hard for others.
The call to arms, inherent in my family, still gnaws at me. My purpose in life died with the demon that day. I've lived my life since then with an ever growing sense of anxiety. When I had money I would travel, hoping to find some new purpose, but nothing feeds that need for purpose.
I'm five drinks in now. Gin, water and lime is my go to right now, though it changes every few years. My father never drank. He died a happy man, but happiness isn't what I inherited. Now my wife is pregnant and I don't know what to tell her. She's excited; I dread the life I'm passing onto our son. He won't even know why he feels this empty.
