After Emmeline, he had carried the book with him everywhere. He kept notes about his travels, and a tally of the people that he had all but consumed. There was a single, lonely picture in the pages. He had gone to Emmeline’s house and found one of her in a small frame and snatched it. Whenever he opened the book, he first saw her beautiful handwriting, then he saw her beautiful face. It made him smile.
Once he had read about guilt. He had been bored and roaming through a library. The pieces of knowledge all gathered together in one place had been fascinating. A long time ago, he had overheard someone drone on about the need to confess sin and be relieved of the guilt weighing down the soul, the boy had been curious. So, that day in the library, he examined the concept. It made no sense. He was who he was. Everything he did, he did because it was a part of him, and there was no need to feel such trifling emotions about something essential to his being. Guilt seemed like a useless emotion. He scoffed at it and put it from his mind.
There was nothing but a feeling of satisfaction after his meetings with his friends. He gathered them and collected them. They became part of him and he was grateful. He missed Emmeline’s youthful smile, but he never felt regret for what he had done. She would be with him always, trapped like he was, and so would the next and the next.