Unhallowed Kin: The Curse That Binds Us

I was beautiful. That's the joke. Everyone says it. "You were probably pretty once." As if that makes it worse. As if the loss of it is the tragedy.

But that's not the curse. The curse is seeing through the beauty of others. Seeing their rot beneath perfect skin. Their lies behind their eyes. The Curse peels it back. It makes you honest. Not kind, not wise—just honest.

When I was Embraced, I thought the pain would be fangs, blood, hunger. But it was the mirror.

You don't know who you are until your reflection screams.

The Clan taught me that the Masquerade isn't just about hiding from mortals. It's about hiding from ourselves. From the Beast. From how much we want to feed, and fuck, and destroy.

We Nosferatu don't get to hide.

So we learn to survive anyway. We adapt. We crawl through your sins, collect your secrets, and whisper them to the Warrens. And you all keep calling us monsters—because if we're monsters, maybe you're not.

But here's the thing. We're not cursed by some ancient God. We are cursed because we see too much. We were made to look like what you all are inside.

So next time you flinch when you look at me? Good. That means it's working.