This mirror's no illusion.
Reflecting our demons
They're caught behind the glass, they're watching back.
Talking to us through the mirror.
«Hamlet» without the Prince of Denmark.
It's only now that I understand the depth of the depravity of this...creature — this monster that I unwillingly helped to create.
As if what he had already done wasn't enough, he found a new way to desecrate, to humiliate, to destroy. As if the suffering wasn't enough, the loss of innocence, the loss of everything to so many people. Small souls trapped in prisons of my making now set to new purpose and used in ways I never thought imaginable.
He lured them all back. Back to a familiar place. Back with familiar tricks. He brought them all together. Are they still...aware? I hope not. It keeps me awake at night. I could make myself sleep, but not yet. Not until I undo what he has done and heal this wound — a wound first inflicted on me, but then one that I let bleed out to cause all of this.
He set some kind of trap. I don't know what it was, but he lead them there again. He overpowered them again. And he robbed them of the only thing that they had. Again. I don't know how those tiny breaths of life came to inhabit those machines, but they will never find rest now. Not like this. I have to call them all back. All of them. Together in one place.
Indeed, it is curious how instinctively one protects the image of oneself from idolatry or any other handling that could make it ridiculous, or too unlike the original to be believed in any longer.
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