Crimson drew down his arm tracing the serrated skin which once stitched me together.

When I left him, as a boy, I cursed him. Much as I do now. Hate heavy, black blood released.

The anger of the child was misread, miscalculated. How could they know? That I, insidiously twisted, corrupted his blight less soul.

From my prison I heard his cries, sweet screams saturated the silence as he trembled.

Frozen, the blade was unable to pierce his flesh, so I pushed him, and he carved away

The shackles broken, I returned to the mantle of deceit and buried him with the others, voices fragmenting into the night.