“Why?”
“What did I do?”
“How can you do this?”
The voices of the ones I’ve killed continue to haunt me. They are always with me now, tormenting me. Somedays, like today, I don’t even realize that I’ve killed again until they are in my head, and I know they are gone.
I should call myself the soul collector. Every one of them, going back to the owl, is here in my head, screaming and crying and asking me questions I don’t have a good enough answer for. I tried, for the longest time, to tell them it was to save my son, to save Ancalagon. I needed to help him. I needed to save him.
“How long ago was that?”
“You killed me months ago.”
“I’m dead, and he’s still a prisoner.”
“Is he even alive anymore?”
“STOP IT!” I scream at them.
He has to be alive. He has to be. If I did this, if I kil
