The alcohol helped. Every time another little parasite minced the brain of it's victim, I would turn to the alcohol. The helplessness I felt I lost them was too much to bear. I heard whispers of the other people living in the caves, even when they thought I couldn't. They said that I was haunted by the memories of losing a patient. That it happened over and over again. That the next loss would kill me.
It's almost laughable to think just how close to the truth they were. If only they knew. If only they knew that I was literally haunted by the memories of the dead. There were so many. Every time I lost a host, their spirit would be waiting for me. Taunting me.
The spirits became part of me, part of my shadow. They would follow me around the caves, second guessing every step I took, every decision I made. It was enough that my guilt was as heavy as a ton of lead, but seeing them around every corner was too much.
The little bastards won. I couldn't take them out, not without killing the host. So the alcohol helped. It made the spirits easier to bear. With the alcohol, I could find an oblivion so absolute that nothing could touch me. Nothing would hurt any more. There was just one problem. In shutting out that intense, overwhelming pain, I shut out everything else too. Everything that could help me get through the loss, the failure. Everyone I loved. It was a price I was willing to pay.