He catches his breath, short and sharp.

This is the worst part. The worst part of everything. (Almost.)

"I should've stayed there, should've -- but I -- "

He closes his eyes, keeping the dampness in.

"I got off that rack, there at the end, and I started putting souls on. Strapping 'em in, ripping them to shreds, a new way every day. A new tool every week. There was always -- "

He bites his lip hard, falling silent.

"I see that every night, now. In my dreams."

And every day, too. Funny how little difference time makes.