Jack

Murderer. You killed not only pigs, but also reason; you killed not only others, but also yourself. You started like the others; just as accustomed to society, and just as severed from it. You didn’t know what to do, just like the rest of them, but you felt it best to organize. Organization was the first light, but then you started slipping, falling into your own louche misery, dragging the others with you. Painting your face with blood, you stole the fire, which you envied, at the cost of your gang’s sanity. Paranoia set in, as you knew it would, and being the leader, you had to capitalize, utilize, and set their eyes on the Beast. The Beast wasn’t real; it had no real force, except for the force you gave it; it held no metaphysical power itself, yet you held its power over their heads, making them cower with fear, and fearfully respect you as a god. Fear mongering was your tool, food was your net, and you trapped them with nothing else than promises of a better plan. You destroyed not only their hope, but also your own chance for salvation. Murderer.