Is this what insanity feels like? He often wonders, as the ground buckles and twists beneath his palms, as the screams of the injured and dying fill his ears in a morbid symphony. His alchemy sparks in beams of red, crackling like electricity as it moves with all the viciousness of a wild animal, stalking its prey in the form of the fleeing Ishvalans. It snaps at their heels almost playfully, only to overtake them, bringing the surrounding buildings crashing down on their oh so fragile bodies.
It's a question he's been asking himself more frequently as of late. Before the war he'd never really taken the time to consider his own sanity, being far too occupied with his alchemy, developing and perfecting it. But here, surrounded by so much death with only his mind for company, it's all too easy to get lost in his musings.
He wonders what sanity even is. Oh, he knows the definition; to ability to think and act in a normal and reasonable way. But who decides what normal even is? The masses of sheep who are swayed by a few pretty words and a smile, who live their worthless lives in an endless monotony until their death? Or the ones who stand at the top, who look down upon their kingdom of depravity and lies and decide all is well.
He hears their whispers after all, ordinary soldier and alchemist alike. They call him a psychopath, a cold-blooded killer, say that the horrors of war have twisted his mind. And they sound so righteous, as if they are above him, that they are better than him. Look at this man, who has become a monster, whilst I have not.
It makes him want to laugh, so he does, enjoying the way they flinch and look away, as if by glancing at him they too will contract his 'sickness'. They say he is insane; well, show him a sane man, and he will judge which one is lying to himself.
.