If you've ever seen what I've seen, I can sympathize with any psychological disorder you may have. Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, perhaps? Maybe some Clinical Depression? I'd understand insanity, too. I can understand all of this because I'm practically dumbfounded that I don't suffer any of these.

I've seen death. I've watched a man get murdered, and I've done it myself. I've watched someone be tortured. I've been tortured. I've been lied to, and I've lied. I've seen people's bodies disintegrate in a bomb blast as I stood twenty feet from the danger zone. I've seen cannibalism. Blood has dripped from my hands, falling onto the vacant body from which it originally came. I've listened as someone's skull popped like a grape under the tires of my car. I've broken necks with my bare hands, and I've split skulls open with my weapons.

Yet, from all of this, I'm a normal guy. Why is this? I guess it's because it's all I ever knew. Eighteen, practicing for my new life. Eighteen, stepping out into the world and beginning my story. For every ray of sunlight, there's a shadow in the background. I didn't realize what I'd done until it was too late. I didn't realize it was wrong until it was normal to me. I'd come running to our makeshift home, a bag of money in my arms and a blood-splattered jewel in between my teeth.

My life, if anything, was a ruby-studded massacre. All for my father, all for my legacy. All for the cane I hold in my blue-gloved hands. That's right… you know who I am. I don't even need to say my name, do I? You know.

Listen – can you hear the dogs howling? Or the pitter-patter of rain miles away, on a concrete statue of somebody no one knows? Maybe you hear the bells. They're Church bells, ringing to call everyone out for a funeral. Everything has a meaning. Every sound, every sight, every smell… every feeling.

The sound of metal on bone has a meaning.

So does the sound of coins clinking together in a leather bag.

Sometimes, meanings go together. Sometimes, they are apart.

I know now what I did. The killing, the lies. The truth I knew. The life I had. It was all I ever thought of, all that ever made me care. That and my friends.

Can you imagine this? It's a dark night, and the clouds are only letting out a small sprinkle. A young eight-year-old sits on his father's lap. The older man is telling his son a tale of thieves, a tale of bravery and deception. Imagine how the door is suddenly rattled in its frame, how the father looks at it fearfully. Imagine his fierce voice as he orders his son to go into the closet.

Can you hear the crying, can you feel the pain, as the boy watches a mechanical owl tear his father apart?

I never knew what I did was anything to feel bad about. I did, however, realize how horrible some other things were. The torture, the bombing, the smell of death.

Now I love. Now, I lay low. Will I ever be a thief again? Will I relive those painful, albeit familiar memories?

You can bet your sweet ass I will.