It's not easy, is it? Growing up without a childhood. I was brought up in an institution. My room was a cell, really. There was an air vent there. I drew pictures around it, faces to keep the Devil out. I was told I'm like this 'cause of early trauma. I disconnected. A beneficial side effect, I suppose.
I know this place.
It was me. I killed Christos. I tied him to that tree. I broke arms and fingers, tore the skin from his body. And in the end, I opened his stomach, reached inside, and pulled out what was in my hand. I was 15 years old. But he didn't say one word. Didn't speak. Didn't say where you were. That's how much he loved you. I wanted you to know that you were loved, because I wasn't.
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