Work Text:
I stumbled along, blood still dripping from my face. When I looked, I saw it on my hands as well. At the time, I still clung to my name and vestiges of my morals. I couldn’t accept what I had done. At the same time, I did nothing but accept it. Thinking about it in circles I developed a strange sort of vindictive pride. Deep down it made me sick but I wanted nothing more than that disease known as anger. The dead were never coming back. What else was there to do? Just walk dripping blood along the sands.