When he had first woken in the infirmary he'd been mired in a sort of haze. Every time he closed his eyes he could see the souls of those he'd been forced to ... to ... it wasn't even murder. They weren't even dead and that made it worse, made him feel so much more empty. He told himself that it wasn't his fault, that he'd been given no choice, but it still sickened him and he'd withdrawn to hide from the reality of it. He'd had to force himself to accept it, to accept what he'd done, what he'd been made to do. Slowly, he'd crawled out of the miserable rut he'd found himself in and, while he was sure he'd probably never come to terms with having done what he did, he had to get on with things. He'd done it once, and he'd made it through that. He could do it again. Even with a heart, he could do it again. This time, at least, not that it softened the pain, he hadn't destroyed a world. Just a city. Just a city. That he could think of it in those terms was almost laughable.
He was no longer running on auto-pilot and the things that had happened after he'd woken were starting to return to him. He had a vague recollection of people trying to talk to him in the early days of his recovery but the memories were distant and dreamlike. Things were growing clearer now. The fog was lifting. He had to carry on. He didn't have much of a choice.
He'd accepted the call to join them and, when the time of the meeting neared, he put in his appearance like everyone else.
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Date: 2013-04-24 11:13 pm (UTC)When he had first woken in the infirmary he'd been mired in a sort of haze. Every time he closed his eyes he could see the souls of those he'd been forced to ... to ... it wasn't even murder. They weren't even dead and that made it worse, made him feel so much more empty. He told himself that it wasn't his fault, that he'd been given no choice, but it still sickened him and he'd withdrawn to hide from the reality of it. He'd had to force himself to accept it, to accept what he'd done, what he'd been made to do. Slowly, he'd crawled out of the miserable rut he'd found himself in and, while he was sure he'd probably never come to terms with having done what he did, he had to get on with things. He'd done it once, and he'd made it through that. He could do it again. Even with a heart, he could do it again. This time, at least, not that it softened the pain, he hadn't destroyed a world. Just a city. Just a city. That he could think of it in those terms was almost laughable.
He was no longer running on auto-pilot and the things that had happened after he'd woken were starting to return to him. He had a vague recollection of people trying to talk to him in the early days of his recovery but the memories were distant and dreamlike. Things were growing clearer now. The fog was lifting. He had to carry on. He didn't have much of a choice.
He'd accepted the call to join them and, when the time of the meeting neared, he put in his appearance like everyone else.