((Because angst. Do I need another reason?))

Dear diary

I was going through some of my old things and I found that dagger.

It used to be my favorite dagger until that night where I decided to never clean it or use it again. The blood has been on the blade for centuries.

It's not that I regret what I did to him, I was a teenager and I did what was best for my people.

It's just fascinating that few others seem to remember him. Even that child I remember seeing has seemingly forgotten about him, not that he knows it.

Imagine, the only person who can seem to remember you is your killer.

Ancient Greece