The Abyssal is not a person in the way most would define one. They are not bound by the constraints of identity, not shaped by stability, not woven into the fabric of meaning. They are impulse made flesh, a force that devours itself, consuming and being consumed, existing only in the immediacy of experience.
There is no fear in their descent. No illusions of salvation, no hesitation at the threshold of oblivion. They know exactly where this path leads, and they walk it with full awareness. They are not reckless, not ignorant of consequence—but consequence, to them, is just another transaction. The price of indulgence is death, and they are more than willing to pay.
To others, this might seem like despair, but The Abyssal does not frame it that way. Life, to them, is not a gift, not a sacred force to be preserved. It is just one of many possibilities. The path of suffering, of indulgence, of excess—it is simply a choice, no more valid or invalid than any other.
Their existence is a plunge, a surrender to every extreme. Eroticism in its most unfiltered, unrestrained form; substances of every kind coursing through their veins, blurring the edges of reality; art that is not admired, but drowned in. They are both creator and destroyer, turning experience into expression, but never for the sake of meaning. They do not interpret—they embody.
They are bound to destruction, bound to the hunger that will never be satisfied, bound to the cycle of excess and annihilation. They are not escaping—they are burning, and they know it.
And yet, there is no regret. There is only the hunger, only the descent, only the dance of self-destruction that, for The Abyssal, is the closest thing to existence that feels real.
The Abyssal is an unchained force, a being both consumed and consuming, moving through existence like a flame with no intention of stopping. Violence comes naturally to them—against others, against themselves. It is not mindless aggression, but simply another form of experience, another indulgence. It carries no moral weight. It is not done out of hate, nor out of love. It is an impulse, like any other.
And yet, even this, too, fades. Violence, after all, still suggests that something matters enough to fight for. That there is something to defend, something to attack, something to react to. And for The Abyssal, meaning itself erodes over time, stripped away by excess, worn down by indulgence after indulgence. When even destruction loses its edge, when no sensation cuts through the haze, what remains?
This is the true abyss—not the fire of self-destruction, but the cold vacuum left when even destruction ceases to hold weight. No anger, no defense, no offense. Only the endless consumption of vice upon vice, stacked, layered, intertwined, all collapsing into each other in an infinite spiral of desire and decay.
For reasons unknown, their body refuses to fail as it should. By all logic, they should be gone already—dissolved, ruined, ended like any other who has walked this path. And yet, they persist. Something within them, whether curse or gift, keeps dragging them forward, forcing them to endure what, for anyone else, would be unbearable.
But do not mistake this for suffering. The Abyssal does not suffer. They do not rage against their state. They do not yearn for an escape, because they are not trapped. They live in constant, fleeting pleasure, an endless series of moments that never connect, never settle, never linger. Every second is ephemeral, yet every second is full.
And so, they remain—a paradox of excess and emptiness, a vessel of indulgence with no bottom. A body that refuses to die, an appetite that refuses to be satisfied. A descent with no end.
The Abyssal was a person, once. Not a shadow, not a wound, not the consequence of something broken beyond repair. There was no tragedy that forced them into this path, no unbearable suffering that twisted them into ruin. They chose this life—not out of desperation, not out of trauma, but simply because they could.
And this is what people cannot accept. The world tolerates destruction when it has an explanation, when it fits into a narrative of pain or victimhood. But The Abyssal offers no such comfort. There is no hidden wound, no deep psychological scar. They are not seeking solace, nor revenge, nor escape. They do not claim to be lost. They have chosen, with full awareness, to indulge in everything that others resist, to embrace what others fear, not as rebellion, but as a way of being.
This absence of justification enrages those who witness them. To indulge without remorse, to descend without a reason that makes sense to others, is an act of heresy against the unspoken rules of suffering. People want to believe that excess must come from damage, that self-destruction must be a cry for help. But The Abyssal denies them this reading. There is nothing to be saved.
Yet, for all the hatred they provoke, The Abyssal does not care. They leave no room for judgment, no space for others to impose their meaning upon them. Their short life—a body wracked by illness, indulgence, and decadence—does not seek validation, does not seek redemption.
They live as they will, with no need to justify, no need to be understood.
They appear as a silhouette barely tethered to form, a suggestion of humanity sketched in shadow. No face, no features—only the hint of what once might have been a body, stretched thin by indulgence and time. Their skin is not skin, but a void that drinks in light, matte and endless, trembling at the edges like smoke held in shape by will alone. Clothes cling to them not as garments, but as ghosts—shreds of something once elegant, now fused to their essence, fluttering without breeze. They leave no footprints. They cast no shadow, because they are the shadow. To look at them is to feel the edges of perception fray, as if the mind itself resists giving them shape. Even their stillness moves. Even their silence speaks. And in their presence, one feels not fear, but erosion—as though being watched by something that does not judge, does not desire, does not forgive, but simply is.