Zara
I always thought his eyes were empty, devoid of any soul. I was wrong; his eyes weren't empty. They were filled with a burning thirst capable of bringing the world to its knees, a rage that consumed every ounce of compassion or conscience.
Looking into his eyes taught me something: evil doesn't just happen—it's born, nurtured, and instilled with knowledge.
I tried to imagine him as a child, his eyes full of wonder and happiness. I didn't try to find a shred of goodness in him, knowing it was all suppressed by the malicious fire that burned in his eyes, but he wasn't born evil.
Life had warped him, turned him into this monster, and he never once resisted.
I saw my features reflected in his. Dark hair, full lips, and round eyes. Looking at his face, I realized how little I had received from my mother, and I wondered how she could have ever tolerated my upbringing.
