I do love him. I was sane enough at the time that that experience was mostly just unfortunate, though a part of me still enjoyed his tears, of course.

[saah, takes hand away from you to rub his face briefly]

I recovered many more memories about the people I killed and whose deaths I enjoyed. I was fighting a war against the church, so many a 'good' man ended up missing organs or dangling from lampposts with a chain wrapped around their lungs. I tried to stop taking my memories at some point, but... hm.... why didn't I just stop? I suppose a part of me felt like I deserved my unhappiness. And a part of me no doubt just wanted to snap all ready so that my pain would end, or at least be overridden. It is also undeniably my life and of value to me. I had friends and a family that I cared for and wanted to remember, that I didn't have the right to forget just because remembering was inconvenient.

I was very indecisive then, I suppose. Stop, start. I would find jobs for the gods that involved torture or murder or then hide in my room and smoke and drink and fuck until I couldn't feel anything. I would convince myself that I wanted to stay at least 'human' and keep my sanity, then it would be too much and I would look for a way to just go back to being a monster. Honestly, I have trouble remembering it in much detail.