[ In those first long years after losing her to the fire, his brain had stepped in to stem the tide of his grieving heart and keep him from washing out into a sea of utter misery. It had been all too easy at the time for him to latch onto those first few wispy tendrils of doubt that reared up after the full scope of his memories returned to him, and he was left to recall the ways in which she had succeeded to meld his mind to her liking.

It hurt far less to paint himself as the victim of the night, to convince himself of her cruel deceit and to turn all of that latent anger and self-disgust outward onto a target he could forever keep at his periphery. In a way, hating her had given him the strength to keep living.

Of course the ripper had no use for such platitudes. The ripper existed in a state of perpetual fury and loathing, did not tremble or shy away from the truth of its own monstrous existence.

It was Stefan, the boy -- not hardly a man -- who needed something to cling to in the cold dark of night, when his loneliness threatened to rise up from beneath the waves and drag him back down into that churning blackness. ]

And then what? We just have this same tired conversation again and again and again, for the rest of our miserable lives? I don't think so.