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Again and again you find yourself standing over corpses. Mangled, frozen in an expression of fear. Every single time.
Your companions keep ignoring it, brushing it off as the tadpole, but you know better. It's not the tadpole. It's you. You've always been the one that's wrong.
It started with Alfira, so full of life and determination.
And you killed her. You look down at your arms and you still see the red. That wonderful, beautiful red.
No matter how many times you try to wash it off, it's still there. A reminder of the guts, bathing the ground with holy death. A promise, but you've long forgotten to what.
The ripping of a bird's wings, the sound of a squirrel's limp body hitting a tree. Crack, snap, a scream, and it's over. It always end the same.
You see a cat, trying to remember where you know if from, but you're met with its head almost fully ripped off, like it was some sort of plaything. Maybe it was.
Violence feels like all you've ever known, the cracking of bones and ripping of flesh. Maybe it's all you are. Born of death, yet mortal all the same.
You grow more and more terrified of resting, or even letting your thoughts wander. It will end in death. It always does.
You thought you fixed it. You won. You would be able to live freely.
But a sinner never truly escapes their sin.
You wake from a nightmare, and once again find what you hoped would never happen.
You see the clump of meat next to you, innards and muscle spread out over the floor, a morbid work of art. It all looks so heavenly, fitting for your love.
You try to scream, sob, anything, but all that escapes you is a giddy laugh.
You sit and stare at what used to be Shadowheart for what feels like an eternity. You see the sun rise and fall and rise again and again and again and again and again and again.
You look at the rotting meat, tepted to devour it before you've lost the last thing you have of her. And yet you stay frozen. Fleas feast, and you've long grown used to the putrid smell of rot. It's your perfume.
You sit for weeks, or maybe months. You keep waiting for the thirst to become too much, but it never does. Your mouth dries up, and your throat cracks from your begging for something to let you die. You don't get a reply. He doesn't care about your begging. He only cares for the death you cause.
A tool. A weapon. That's all you are. And just like them you get discarded and left to rust. A broken tool has no use.