It's hard to see his face under the mask of riven scars, a scattered tear of experience, everything torn save his eyes and his teeth. His eyes still see. His teeth still tear. The face is for everyone else.
He's been broken and broken and broken. There have been times when his face has been rent to be unrecognisable. Limbs burned clean off. His clothes ripped to pathetic ribbons. He's laid on the cold, on the nothing, on the empty. He cries and the tears soak into the ground, with no more point than the evisceration he's suffered.
He doesn't. Fucking. Care.
He laughs. He shivers with the cold and the lack of flesh. He pulls meat enough to stand and coughs enough laughter to give life to his eyes, to lick the blood from his teeth. To grip his fists and find enough blade to rush, rush, rush. Yes, my lover. Yes, it's time for more. It's time for another breath.
It's time to cut again. To taste that flesh to taste their fear to lick their weakness. To dig in and touch them inside, inside their darkness where they cannot see. Caressing their secrets laughing and inhaling their trembling.
He's been killed time and time again. He's died so many times he cannot even imagine what life is. He rises and his thirst makes the unbearable pain of being fucking murdered seem like a forgettable itch.
You're not the first murderer. You're just the latest. He lives.