I have done nothing but stare at the wall these past days.
Even now, I must write whilst lying on my side. It is awkward to apply pen to paper properly in this position for I am forced to lay on my right arm; my writing hand. Still, needs must, for my left arm and shoulder remain greatly pained, the muscles wrenched from the dislocation, and my rump is too tender to sit upon. Perhaps if Davick had stitched instead of cauterised, I would be able to put my weight upon it now, alas he chose the quickest route to sealing my lacerations and I am reasonably certain that he rather enjoyed the extra pain it caused.
I should not be so unkind to him, I suppose. He did save me yet again and I am grateful for that. However, that is no excuse to delight so in my suffering. I understand that he is going through a hard time in the absence of Marinette and I sympathise with him for it, but again he need not take that out on me.
I spend most of my time alone. Davick is a busy man and cannot stay here to keep me company which does leave me at a bit of a loss for the majority of the day. I cannot rise from the bed yet, nor walk, so retrieving any necessities that I might need is nigh on impossible. Luckily, he leaves a pitcher of water and some food on a table nearby, but it is always just out of reach and takes me a lot of effort and pain to get. I swear that he does it on purpose, infuriating creature that he is!
In almost constant solitude, I find that my thoughts often drift back to Siward. Did he have a wife? A child? Did he have parents or siblings? Have my actions brought unnecessary grief to people whom I do not know? He never spoke to me of such but then, he and I rarely spoke anyway.
Was there something I could have done differently to change the outcome of our argument? Specifically something that would not have compromised my principals, that is. Was there a way I could have just incapacitated him instead of killing him?
Are my principals worth a mans life anyway?
It is a terrible thing that I have done and I would take it back if I could. The guilt and regret gnaws at me incessantly. It makes me want to cry, to scream, to believe in a creative force that I might raise my hands heavenwards and offer my own life in exchange for the one I took, but I can do none of these things. I find my eyes dry, my voice stopped in my throat and I never was able to believe in all-powerful beings.
I am scared. I am scared of who I have become now. I am scared of what I have turned into. I am scared that someone might find out and that they might not.
