doesn’t , he snarls, lowly and dangerously, as if he could actually frighten himself to submission in the way he terrifies anyone with a single look. He doesn’t want
to stop, because he doesn’t need anything but this. He needs nothing but power and revenge. He doesn’t want, doesn’t yearn for anything but fulfilling his goal—that was all there was to it; to his
life . That is all he has.
Hatred, desire for revenge, bloodlust, a goal. That is all, that was everything.
But it hadn’t always been like that —there was more to that ‘ all
’, once. There was more to that ‘
everything ’. However, ever so slowly he begins to forget there even was a before
this—a before the darkness. It seems impossible to look down at his hands and find them spotless white instead of tainted crimson. It seems like they’ve been this way all along.
Like he has been this way all along.
But a part of him knows it isn’t true; a really, really small part that grows quieter and quieter with each passing day, weaker and weaker until it’s at the verge of disappearing altogether, but that sometimes screamed loudly and desperately when he closed his eyes. The scream was usually represented by her betrayed face—
hers , the face of the one he discarded after deeming her uselesead Fully out and overwhelm him from the inside. He Makes sure it never does. -
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