Ender.
The hero.
The monster.
The child.
A boy.
A man.
A soldier.
His own words. He can hear them now, ringing out in the silence of the room. Bouncing around and around and around until he can't hear anymore. He's deaf.
He can see himself. Screaming at his jeesh. Giving them the infamous command. Permission to destroy an entire sentient species. It's only a game, It's only a game. It's not a game. It's real life.
Guilt. Responsibility. They weigh on him like nothing ever could. They crush his chest, his lungs, his throat until he can't breathe. He hates himself. What has he done? He knows what he's done. Xenocide. He's a killer. A monster. Peter.
I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Please forgive me. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry. Forgive me. Don't forgive me. I don't deserve your forgiveness. I deserve to suffer.
But he's only a boy. Only a child. No, he's more than that. He's a soldier. He's always been a soldier. Childhood passed him by. He was born a soldier, raised a soldier, and he will die a soldier. Always.
He hates that.
The screams come at night. So do the tears. So does the pain. All at once. His mind replays all his worst memories, repeating them over and over again like a broken record. Stilson. Bonzo. He killed them. He's a murderer. The Hive Queen. He killed her. He's a monster. He bites his fist and tastes blood. He deserves this.
They call him a hero. Savior of the human race. He can't stand it. Their praise, their love, their loyalty, it all mocks him. He doesn't deserve it. Hate me, he wants to scream, hate me because that's all I deserve. But no one hates him. They all love him.
And he hates that.
How many days has it been? How many weeks? How many months? It seems like he's been lying in bed for centuries. Time is a jumbled mess. Another puzzle for him to solve. He hears voices in the distance. Another person for him to kill. He hates himself. He did this, he did this. The greatest sin of all.
His mother. His father. Long gone. He knows he will never see them anymore. He no longer cares. His sister. He loves her, he misses her. He always will. But she's gone, too. His brother. He fears him. But deep down inside his mangled, twisted heart he also loves him. Craves his affection. Love me, Peter, love me.
Everything is a blurry mess. He's in so much pain. He deserves it. Death would be a sweet relief. He can't let himself die. He doesn't deserve that pleasure.
Ender. His name. Ender means monster. Ender means murderer. Ender means Peter. Now more than ever, he hates his name.
This is his fault. All his fault.
Ender. The hero. The monster. The child.
