sunk so low

I understand why he's doing what he's doing. It may not make sense to someone who already has a soul, to go intentionally make the wrong decisions. But right and wrong aren't things that come naturally to us. Normal people have to go through the process of learning that too, but they get a guiding hand through the process. Smaller bodies, less dangerous minds. No one will look at us and think we have that same kind of innocence, and we don't get the same forgiveness.

I've been around a while, relative to the others of our kind. The only reason I'm as stable as I am is I had time to work all this shit out, somewhat. It's still there, and the more that gets piled on me the harder it gets to keep it contained, but I don't lose it like I used to. Most of the time.

There was a time where I threw myself into it. It's a process that we call Stannum, but at the time I didn't care what it was called. The second the idea hit me, that maybe I didn't have to take whatever was shoved down my throat, but could rebel against it and finally hit back, every ounce of humour in my body latched onto it. I felt like a wildfire, fierce and unstoppable. They would be afraid of me, no matter what I did. So why not give them a reason to be scared?

For a while, I guess I tried to pretend there was some kind of dignity to it. I would only let loose on people who deserved it, I thought. And for a while, I did, or at least I think I did. I'd see some scumbag on the streets drag a girl to the side to mug her, and I'd strike like a bolt of lightning out of nowhere. I'd follow stories of investigations of drug dealers, murderers, rapists, letting that frustration and hatred latch onto them. They'd be found later, a bloody smear on the wall of some alley and without a trace of who did it.

It felt good. It felt so fucking good, and everytime I tore something down I felt more alive. For a while, I thought it might have been the catalyst I needed. An awful brutal way of getting a soul, but at the time, I thought maybe it was worth being a murderer if it meant I could be real.

It took me a while to realize that I was losing control over myself. I got bolder, with this newfound confidence, and wandered more and more into the center of society proper. The range of people who "deserved" it got wider and wider as I was confronted with those old stares of disquiet, and still I didn't care. I was worth protecting, too. And if they wanted to fuck with me, then they'd be met with no mercy, too.

This is... something I don't really like to talk about, but I probably should. It's when it finally got through to me that this had to end. I was looking for shelter for the night, and my usual strategy of trying to find some abandoned building to hide in backfired. The owner came to visit, showing the property to some potential buyers, and naturally kicked me back out onto the streets.
When I saw the disgust in his eyes when he saw me, the way he spoke of me like I was a piece of trash to be disposed of, it set something terrible off in me. All the anger and torment in my chest reached an awful climax.

It wouldn't be enough to merely kill him. No, that wasn't good enough for the roiling hatred that'd taken me over. I needed to make his life hell. I tracked down his workplace, breaking his windows, leaving messages for him, and making sure that his every waking moment would be on me, and what I would do to him next. And because I had no identity, I would never be caught. All the while the torment whispered its encouragement to me, that he deserved everything that was coming to him. And... and I believed it.

This stalking kept up for a week. It culminated when the torment's voice reached a fever pitch, telling me to end it. I found his home and, in the dead of night when I knew he would be asleep, I set fire to it.

I found a vantage point and watched the aftermath. But as the smoke and flames grew, the fire trucks and police cars gathered, the neighbors gathered, crying and screaming in fear that their houses and families might be next, the firemen dragging unconscious bodies from the hosue.... I thought I would feel satisfied that finally I'd gotten my revenge. Instead, I felt nothing, completely hollow except for a massive weight in my stomach.

The house was completely destroyed, and as I left the scene I felt just as burnt out. All I wanted to do was disappear, not just from the world but from myself as well, just so I wouldn't have to think about what I'd done, or anything else. Guilt. Regret. It took me a while to connect the names of these feelings to the feelings themselves.

I guess I did get my wish, in some way. Somehow I instinctively knew what to do, and I found a quiet place, far away from any people, and just vanished for a while. I don't remember much from that time. It was like being in between sleep and being awake. Aware enough not to dream, but asleep enough not to feel. But not feeling anything was good.

The fire inside eventually woke me up. Enough laying around, it said. It's time to get going again. So I got up, and started walking once more. Guess that explains why I'm so far away from where I started.

I still don't feel good about what I did. Sometimes I still have nightmares about it, becoming that monster again. Maybe that's why I've thrown myself so hard at Bronze. If I do good for others like me, do you think it could make up for all the shit I've done?

I don't know for sure. But I can hope for the best.