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"You have killed since you were born, child, and it is your fate to live thus. You cannot run forever."
The sound of the horrorterrors is loud, as always, and it finds you weak and tired, stretched out for the sopor. Kanaya says it helps with daymares, but it takes it's own toll on the mind, and this is it for you. Constant reminders of the time spent inside the horrorterror's depths, the oozing nothing of everything, the seeping static. You have spent years in this place, and even still, even now in the peace you have made, your mind drags you back here. But the calling is correct. You cannot wait for this to be over forever.
"We are eternal, and were we not to be, then it is as you have been seated upon a throne of that which is silvery and the ilk of not being. Were this not true, there are consequences being paid in the future of this household."
You are not aware of it when you awaken, when the horrorterror's thoughts seep into your mind and permeate your mortal being as simply as one wets a drying-rag. You get up quietly and slip away from your bed, comfortable and so imperfectly bloody, a glorious contrast to the sterility of your childhood home. The imagery stays with you as you begin to draw a bath, preparing for the meeting between you and the horrorterror.
They are vast, unthinkable in an entirely comprehensible way, and their thoughts wear away skin until you begin to bleed, loosing blood upon the war in a red cloud. Ocean water works better for this, deeper and concealing of the brine you cough from punctured lungs, but a bathtub will have to do as an entryway to The Place Where All Water Goes. It is in this time that you begin to tend to their weaknesses, letting form be lost to you and spreading mind to spread and engulf the horrorterror. For so many of them, you offer the only respite, the only chance of death.
It's when you begin to lose your body entirely that you begin to destroy the horrorterror, giving it the solace of death. They come to you to die, so they say, and that is what they will do. It is tenderly you begin to strip away its skin, gentle the psychic energy ripping limb from limb, power it has given to you allowing its own downfall. You stay submerged for hours, slowly dissolving the mind of the grieving horrorterror. You can no longer feel the tendrils upon your soul, the static engulfing your mind, the power flowing through you, when you emerge.. Flakes of crusted, black skin seeping ichor begins to slough, in patterns reflecting scars shedding, both yours and by the many others you've tussled with in the course of your life. Kanaya finds you there, hours later again, when she comes home. She helps you wash, in silence, then leads you to the bed, laying down beside you and Roxy, fading off to unconsciousness.
And the calls come, ceaselessly and tiring as any ocean current.
You used to think constantly about how your life impacts your lovers, but now it has dimmed to a slow, simmering guilt inside your chest. The work of acting as the death for innumerable beings is hard, beyond even your comprehension some days. So you learn to forget, to glide between one job and another, and let everything sort itself out. It's not healthy, but what else is there to do?
So you live, and the days drag on. You have killed since you were born, and it is your fate to live thus.