In my home, all knew who he was, though not as deeply as I could conceive. They feared his quick temper and impulsive, reckless decisions to just end a life, being jocular and facetious until he threatened to a draw a sword. Then all grew quiet. Apologies were hastily said with all consideration and the others retired to allow him his solitude.
But the killings within the village and surrounding countryside did not cease as he came to apply himself to our facilities; they increased. By night, he destroyed lives, homes, dreams, ambitions, by day he remained tense, on edge, perpetually washing his hands again and again. So he was wounded by his actions, as I like to imagine his cheek was wounded by my fiancé. Knowing that my satisfaction with his shame was a depraved thought, I felt guilt as well but could not help a small, inner smirk. That was wrong.
Every time he killed, he tried to wash the imperceptible stains from his hands.
Life is beauty…