Karloff had made it there finally, to his mother's grave. He could feel the hot burning behind his eyes, the threat of tears and agony to rain down. Memories were so close here, so near the surface. This was where he had come so long ago, to bury his mother.
He had been merely a foal. He had drug her body there alone and gave her the burial his father hadn't stayed around to give her. Karloff could still remember the weakness, the sickness in his stomach when he saw her.
Back then, he had been repulsed by blood and flesh. Was this new future for him, some sick way of twisting that night? No more repulsion of blood, was it a twisted way to perceive the drinking of it but not the shedding of it?
He couldn't understand it. It was too much to wrap his mind around. How could he understand all these things when he had been left alone and young. What was he suppose to know? What was true and what wasn't?
He stood there looking at her grave, small tears running down his face. He had sacrificed everything he cared about to not hurt anyone anymore, but that was over. He would find a way past that. He would find forgiveness, and he would find answers.
