 I often think back to that one day, one of the last warm autumn days when we went fishing together. I still wonder how that animal saw the world, how he understood what was happening to him, being pulled out of the water and staring at us, looking down at him. Back then I knew. I didn't have the words, but I knew. What were we, if not alien gods, cold and uncaring, tearing him out of his world into a realm far past his comprehension, only to feast upon his body and soul. Up until the point the hook pulled him out, even after the bite, he believed he understood the world and its rules. He knew what was possible and what was not. He survived endless amounts of moments, eating and flinging, had done it hundreds of times. He believed nothing could surprise him anymore, and when he thought he had it all figured out, then something like this happened. The world was much, much larger than that river, and these all-powerful beings looked down on him, not to judge him, not for a greater reason. I have been waiting since that day. When will I be pulled out of my river? I could tell you each and every part of that journey from memory. I could tell you where the path winds and bends, where the wind blows due to a break in the trees. The first corner you turn when you see it, miles away and covered in fog, but that unmistakable cold structure always in my mind. I felt like I didn't have any agency, just being forced back and forth along that hellish path to damnation. The worst part wasn't the screams, but the silence. I only had myself for company. Me and my thoughts left a bask in eternity while we contemplated my place in hell. Each and every day I told myself that I'd do something, that I'd quit, leave, never look back. I never did. I kept getting paid, and I kept going home, and that's what the worst part is. The living with yourself. It's not the knowledge that you're having a hand in the murder of so many people. It's the fact that you can still sleep at night. I close my eyes, and all I can see is that structure of smoke, floating skyward against a red sky, then the raining down of a thousand souls, dancing in the wind. There comes a point where the faces of the people you've wronged become too many to recognize in a dream. They merge, and they change. No longer recognizable individuals, but an entire consciousness within your thoughts. I was once on the path when it began to snow, and from behind me I heard the laughter of a child as she reached her hand out and the snowflake fall into her hand, melting into nothing within a few seconds. Amidst all the screams, the curses, the cries, the sound of that laughter was the most haunting thing I have ever known. I won't beg for forgiveness. I don't want it. I don't deserve it. Whatever is coming for me after I die, I embrace as the inevitable. Thank you for listening. Site 42 studios and its staff are funded by viewers like you. Please become a patron or visit our merch store at the link in our bio to support our work. Secure. Contain. Protect.