He couldn’t exactly remember when it started. It was as if his childhood never happened, although childhood for one living in the 11th century was a feat of luck and survival. Still, there were vivid memories, vivid feelings of needs, desires, anger and hatred. Those memories roiled up from the darkness of his imagination like bile. He shuddered momentarily and trudged onwards down the road.

He remembered the beginning, during his studies. He remembered a particular brother who managed to not only offend and insult him, but also to make him feel inconsequential. He remembered the anger as the clergyman turned his back on him – and then the first thoughts of murder hit him like a thunderbolt sent from the heavens. He could see the clothes and skin as it was torn apart, he could smell and feel the blood as it splashed on his hands, and he could taste… no, he wouldn’t think of that. And yet, all this, in his head, and his supreme impotence of being unable to let it out. It was almost more than he could bear.