Rest is a four-letter word.
Khaavren wants me to take a week off. I'm not sure when the word "vacation" came to be something I dread as though it's punishment.
"Choose for yourself," he said.
But I do, Khaavren, at the worst of times in the worst of ways. The suffering of others delights me. I'll seek it, prolong it. I choose to act on these urges.
And I can't stop.
Rest, he wants me to rest; the world will be fine for a week "without its noble monster to take care of things." (Even he admits what I am. The taint runs so very deep.) But if it is, that means I'm not necessary; and if I'm not necessary, the things I do - the evil means I've used towards good ends - are no longer justified.
If they're not justified there's no redemption from it. Well and truly damned.
When I stop long enough to think, the memories come back so strong it's like I'm living in those nightmare moments all over again.
I don't want to rest. I'm terrified to be alone with my mind. But I can't tell him no. Don't want to tell him no.
I never want to deny them anything. I have so very little to give them as it is.