Gill’s feet moved slowly, aimlessly beneath him as he continued his agonising and deafening trek home. He stopped earlier to wash the worst of the blood off himself, to little effect, as it seemed to have seeped into his skin, a permanent stain on his soul. This painful realisation had brought his tears once again. He saw no other people around, but heard shuffling and muffled whispers in the houses he passed. No doubt they had heard about what happened already, tales and rumours travelled like wild-fire after all.

But what was the worst of everything was the voices. A burning hell of screams, laughter, taunts, plots and evil notions.

‘They know.’

‘Kill them.’

‘They can see you.’

‘Kill them.’

‘You could rule them.’

‘Kill them.’

‘Take their money.’

‘Kill them.’

‘You are a god.’

‘Kill them.’

‘Take everything.’

‘Kill them.’

They thudded in his head like a thunderstorm, slammed his mind like a smith, fired it like clay, tore through it like an axe through a tapestry. Gill dug his fingers into his head, begging for relief. He had tried hitting his head, dunking it in water and even trying to tear hair from his scalp, but the damage healed faster than he could soak up the relief of the momentary quietness.

At this point Gill was begging for a longer silence.

Only at this moment, did he look up, and see his house. It was barely recognisable.

The small cobblestone steps leading up to the front door, where Gill had spent hours upon hours picking at the mortar with sticks in his childhood years, were broken, shattered and dug up. His pale blue front door, there since before he was born was shattered and smashed off its hinges.

His living room, once a space for relax and comfort, was turned over completely. Patches of smashed glass, splintered furniture and stamped-in photos. His mother’s old jewellery box was cracked and empty, his father’s workbench was swept onto the floor, half finished curiosities and devices crushed underfoot. Everything they had that was worth anything was gone or destroyed.

Gill mindlessly stumbled through the carnage, tears tapping a regular rhythm against the wooden floor and the smashed remains of his life. He didn’t even bother trying to stop the voices anymore, there was no more reason to. There was nothing left of him to save. He’d destroyed it all.

‘They did this.’

‘Shouldn’t have let them run.’

‘Guilty.’

‘Idiot.’

‘Kill everyone.’

‘Find the rest of us.’

‘Find them.’

‘Kill everyone.’

Gill slammed his fist into the floorboards, exploding through them. He couldn’t take it anymore. He tore out board after board, roaring with anger as he shredded the underside of his childhood away.

At last he found what he wasn’t meant to know about. His father’s strongbox.

He bent the reinforced metal at a sickening angle, shattering the double-locks. Gill sifted through old family photos, stacks of military money, medals, notes and letters until he found what he was looking for. He pulled the small scroll of paper out and opened it, finally revealing that lifelong mystery. It was a map of beneath the workshop, to where his father’s past was laid to rest.

Gill tried to stand up, but the voices doubled in intensity, sending him to his knees in deafening agony. His senses went dark, his head felt like it was being used as an anvil, pounding indescribable pain every second as the world around him became a blur. He could no longer distinguish what was real and what was in his head, as everything faded into a thudding beat of screams and cries for murder. Gill clawed all around him, searching for something to centre himself with, to find anything that could free him from this crushing agony.

His hand slammed down onto the shards of broken glass that once held the family photo in place, where Gill was only a baby. His eyes were bright and full of optimism, red cheeks and a beaming face. His father and his weathered, sad eyes behind his wide brimmed glasses. His chiselled arms bulging beneath his leather coat and his impossibly broad shoulders being home to a small blue bird, his little Sapphire. Gill could still remember his Father’s sobs when that small bird died, a broken man losing their closest friend.

Then there was his mother. Short, small and full of vitality and crazy energy. The little streak of blue in her pumpkin-orange hair curled just over her left eye. Her eyes were a marvel. Mismatched brown and grey, perfectly matching her warm, energetic warmth and love and focussed, steely working. The mixture that made for the best seamstress, the best mother. The best father with his powerful and clever games and lessons. To Gill, it only seemed natural tat they deserved the perfect son.

Gill’s eyes snapped open, as he dragged himself forward through the broken memories. His legs didn’t move from the searing pain in his head and his arms felt like lead weights.

“A good son…can fight.” Gill growled through his teeth as he dragged himself another few feet.

‘What?’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Kill?’

‘Obey.’

‘Kill.’

“A good son fights for…his family.” Gill groaned as he wrapped his hand around the doorway to the workshop.

‘Fight?’

‘Good.’

‘Fighting is good.’

‘Family is dead.’

‘New family kill with you.’

“A good son will…do the right thing.” Gill almost panted as he heaved himself to the centre of the workshop. His eyes darted around the room, looking for the right place.

‘Right?’

‘You have the right to rule.’

‘And kill.’

‘And take.’

‘Only rights you need.’

Gill raised his arm, fighting through the agony.

“A good son…protects what he loves.” Gill breathed as he slammed his arm to the ground, sending a web of cracks throughout the floor.

‘Power.’

‘See your power.’

‘Use it.’

‘Fight with it.’

Gill dug his hand under the stones of the floor, latching around a handle.

“A good son…avenges.” Gill growled as he tugged a huge box free of the deep set floor.

‘Good.’

‘Vengeance.’

‘They wronged you.’

‘Kill them all.’

Gill threw open the lid and almost gasped at what lay before him.

Weapons, uniform, armour, several guns and whole bags of ammunition. Gill pushed aside his questions as he grabbed the closest thing that would suit his purposes. A simple flintlock pistol, preloaded and ready.

‘Perfect.’

‘Use these.’

‘Kill them all.’

Gill pulled the gun to himself, forcing his hands to move through the agony in his head, pulling the hammer back, clicking it into place. Gill took a breath.

“A good son stops evil.” Gill whispered to himself, as he put the gun to his head.

‘Wait.’

‘What?’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Don’t kill.’

‘Wrong person.’

Gill’s hand trembled with pain and terror but his grip tightened.

“You killed Arianna. Vexa. Mike. Elizabeth. Eren. Everyone. Now you can go to hell.” Gill grabbed his gun with both hands to steady his massive shaking and the tears falling from his eyes. He poised himself on the trigger as the voices shouted louder and louder and louder until he could hear nothing but pleadings for mercy and life. Gill could do nothing but cry as he pressed on the trigger.

“I'm sorry everyone.”

The shot rang out through the broken house, the street, the town and echoed back to the sea, where the waves seemed to weep the loss. The crows all over the town stopped and cawed to the sky.