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What's the matter? The witch of Doma will soon be dead.
That's what you wanted, isn't it? That's what it takes to tell yourselves this wasn't a problem of your own making, that I am not a sacrificial lamb on the pyre of ills that will long outlive me. These roots grow deeper than the trees. They taint the soil, the very essence of the culture that gave me no other choice. Kill, or die. Become a monster to spite them, or wither on the branch. I killed parts of myself to stay alive at the cost of my own soul, my dead eyes a sick reflection of that wound. At least with this, I got to feel a rush of excitement and some pithy bit of power I was robbed of, ordering those brutes around. They leered at me and I cannot deny the sick rush I felt knowing I could kill them if they so much as breathed on me. I cannot deny the high as I ordered people to their deaths wasn't satisfying, after all they had done.
I know it was cruel.
I did unspeakable things. They used and used and used, took and took until there was nothing left of me but a dead husk, and you wish to loathe me for taking bits of myself back in their self-righteous blood. I am a monster, witch, cruel thing you can label me as the doomed ‘other’. That's what it takes to continue to tell yourself I was a mistake. A fluke. A human life, treated as a nuisance until I became one out of spite. I wanted them to hurt like I did, I wanted their skin to burn with all the rage I held deep inside so they wouldn’t kill me when those men held me down and used me like a toy. All the pain of a child who never got a chance to grow those roots. I don't think you could ever understand. No.
I think it better you kill me here, brave warrior. I will become the beast you wish to make it easy for you, and rest well this eve none the wiser. Do-gooder, savior of savages and beast-men and tainted whores. You, who can never touch the depths within and declare the day saved once you slaughter with impunity. You brought him to me, knowing what a sick bastard my brother would be. You let him break my flimsy peace, let him purposefully reopen wounds for your own sick amusement, and in the end I can't fault you for not caring for me like Gosetsu. Not knowing was easier. Asahi was more broken than I, in many ways. Broken in that he craved the depravity that stained my soul, that he despised me for wanting more than the trauma unfairly shouldered on me. Selfish worm. He could never hope to be as strong as I, to hold fast even as I know my fight is over.
There is no room for me in your new world, after all. I have done too much. I have seen too much, brought too much ill to this world to ever undo, but you will sleep soundly tonight knowing justice was served, and the simple problem of putting a tortured animal out of its misery is complete. Hien will go on to be praised for it. There will always be more like me, as long as you suffer the men responsible, grant them their humanity while you scorn the women scorched by it’s evils. Many will mourn the people I've hurt, but I know none will mourn for me. Do I really deserve more?
Tell me, Warrior of Light. I will go easily if you just tell me; how freeing it is to truly be loved?