I am a stone.
Cold, hard, silent.
Stones do not feel. Stones do not think. Stones do not question.
Thinking this makes it easier. Focuses his mind.
A distant memory shimmers; an old story. Two brothers, one murdered by the other. Jealousy and rage. The murderer bearing the mark of his hideous crime; isolation and suffering.
The first weapon.
A stone.
Inwardly, he smiles – how appropriate.
Like a mirage in the desert, the memory vanishes as quickly as it appeared.
His programmers took many things from him – the bulk of his memories, his free will, maybe even his humanity – but they allowed him to retain emotions. Perhaps they had tried, and found it impossible to extract from him his ability to feel. He used to think it a small mercy, but it became an unspeakable curse.
The things I've seen…
The things I've done…
NO.
I am a stone.
Shifting his weight, he settles in for another long day in his stuffy, dingy corner in the Ninth Circle.