It was a paltry legacy with which you left me, a legacy of debt and disillusionment, catastrophe and chaos.
Like a cunning monster stalking its prey, you ensnared me when I was most vulnerable and had the least to offer, and yet took from me more than anyone ever has, or ever could. I had little enough to begin with; you gave me nothing and now I find myself with less than that.
You used the locks of my hair to line your den, used my flesh to sustain you, used my soul to shield yours from horrors of your own making, swilled my blood round your glass like ruby wine and gulped it down; I have bled for you, and I begrudge you every tiny drop.
Had I let you, you would even have used my bones as firewood when the winter winds whipped cold.
But, in the end, the legacy you left damns you, not me.
No kind of man would do what you have done. No kind at all.
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