"Greave," they said "Greave little child." Then the hate poured out of your black hole of soul.

And I killed them. I ripped there eyes out with my claws; I chewed on their brains. Peeling the crusty skin from their bodys.
And I liked it. I like the way the blood sunk into my nail beds. How the smell of rotting flesh oozed out of them pouring into my mouth.
And I ate them. Not one by one, but all of their brains for breakfast. Their livers for brunch, with their soles for dinner.
And they came again. This time with prods and potions, with charms and witles; with ways of fixing my broken parts.
And I murdered them. I drew back their spines from their skeletons. I drew out there blood and boiled it.
And I feasted. I ate like a merchant right after a raid; sleeping and slashing right open their brains.
And I thrived. I never have gotten this full. Their intestine, I slurped like spaghetti. The small then the large, in no order of gender.
And then others came. They wanted to join in, they wanted the guilt. They wanted my shame; they wanted to have my half and a little more. They wanted the spotlight, they wanted to tell their story and their pain. Because, they were the true sufferings.
And I butchered them.