Relentless Part 4

I have run out of them .. said the killer.

Run out of what? asked the saint.

Graves, empty graves, graves to bury bodies in .. Makes me feel like there is no one left to kill.

You speak of graves, bodies, I hear memories, scars.

You have run out of places to bury your memories, no more places to go to in order to tend to scars. That is a sad thing.

Yes, I no longer have that luxury. No where left for me to hide the awful things I have done. No places left to rid myself of the pain of it all.

It is ok, my son. That in itself does not mean you need to carry your burdens alone.

It does, father. I must bear witness to a solitary crime. Let my guilt hang in the air around me. Let my wounds heal themselves slowly. Painfully.

…

I have come to a place in time where the happiness of being is moderated by the unease of not being able to share that happiness with anyone. Not on a day to day basis. The people who used to be my sources of ‘repent’ and ‘confession’ are now saturated with my words. 

They wish to hear no more of them. I understand this attitude, respect it. In this distance, it is now going to be a mighty task in rebuilding of the self. A self that lets its energies be spent on others and outside affairs.

My only hope, given the silence of solitude and the penitence of idle hands, is the hope of labour and hard work to be done.