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Twelve years now, since I lost my last tie to humanity in those dunes. Eleven years of hunting them down, day and night. They never ended, and so I never stopped. Why should I? They killed him.

They were delicious.

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It would seem I have feelings beyond the thrill of combat. Though they have been refuted, said by some to be destined to be alone for my full life. I endured this before, why does it choose to hurt now? It doesn't matter, violence solves all of my pain. Even monsters have partners, maybe I am worse? I wouldn't be surprised.

 

Have you seen what I become?

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What is the self? What separates 'Me' from 'You' from 'Him' and 'It'? A sense of self worth given through words is difficult to keep from feeling like too much.  Why should I say that I am happy when I'm not. The past me would have been happy at something like this.. He would have been joyous at the prospect of being a city guard. A warrior with a cause.

It's been a long time since he's been truly happy.

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Everything He's done, and ever will do is irrelevant. No one gives a shit about him, his attempts, his desires.. nothing beyond what violence he brings on them so they can feel good about themselves.
 
He is little more than a monster to them.