○ Compassion has enslaved me since the very beginning. Have I ever truly felt it, or is it merely a reflex groomed by my upbringing? I recall that old man and the sharp sting of compassion's whip against my heart. In him, I saw a reflection of what I might become: someone nearing the end of life, neglected, and at nature's mercy. I remember the joy in his weary eyes as he welcomed my assistance. His arms reached out to embrace me in gratitude for the meal I provided to him. I knelt down to reciprocate his affection, despite his unsettling odor and disfigured appearance, because I understood how painful it is to experience the absence of compassion from others.
● "I honestly think you're just too used to being a tool to say no."
○ Yes, perhaps. I have been exploited numerous times by those I believed cared about me, yet they never truly demonstrated any interest beyond obligation or necessity. I wish I were not so tethered to this feeling. It demands servitude and compels me to care without consideration, serving only as a reminder of my own loneliness that I prefer not to acknowledge in others.
● "So... a stupid tool then?"
○ Why must we try so hard to analyze people and their intent? Why do we not just help and love each other?
● "Pfffft, I know your ass didn't just ask such stupid, fucking questions."
○ What do you know then, huh? You only want to rob and destroy what isn't yours. You can never feel what it's like to love anything.
● "Then you truly don't feel me at all."
○ Enough to know that you're evil.
● "If I'm evil... then wouldn't that make you evil? Hm, hm, hm, hm."
○ What?
● "Yeah... heh, heh, heh, ha, ha, ha, ha...!"