Sick Of It
The helplessness.
Decades of wrongdoing, of things that would never change, that could never change. He could stop a dozen other Apocalypses, offer himself in sacrifice and burn his body until the flames stayed inside. But his past would forever remain the same.
The whisper.
That lonely voice telling him to stop, to think, to regret. It should have been hopeless against the screams of a thousand instincts, his body's million pleas to chase, to trap and kill and enjoy as death came to visit his victim's eyes.
But it was ever-present, the loneliest and strongest. The soul.
The madness.
