IXI
He wished he was dead.
His guilt was a ravenous thing; it ate at him day and night and haunted him even in sleep. Every waking moment he was plagued by remorse until finally he felt as though he'd go mad. Nothing eased it, and nothing he could do could change the fact that he'd killed her.
He'd killed Hasahina.
Unwittingly, yes, but there was no denying the cold hard truth. What he'd done stained his soul as surely as her blood –the vivid, condemning blue that had sustained her- had painted their small, cramped hotel room. She'd loved him, he knew, and for the short time they'd been together he'd thought that maybe, just maybe, he'd learn to love her back.
All that was impossible now. He'd been brought back to Nirai Kanai more or less a prisoner, beset in his own private grief. Ridiculous, that the color of blood had dictated he be her executioner; how could these people ever hope to understand? They wouldn't, and so he continued to dwell mired in self imposed anguish.
He'd killed Hasahina.
He'd killed a Mu.
IXI
