I was trembling. Not from a shiver of fear. Not from a frozen jolt coming from an outside too vast, too unknown, too silent. Not even from that dizziness one feels when a scream too ancient awakens in the chest. No, it wasn't any of that. It wasn't the cold, it wasn't the stupefaction, it wasn't the mystical dread of a world that had become too big for me.
It was rage.
Not a sharp anger, not a burning fury, not that theatrical storm we brandish at others while shouting their names. No. A muffled rage. Heavy. Ancient. A hatred without a target. Or rather, yes — but aimed. Directed. Not against the voices. Not against the distorted memories. Not against this world with soft entrails still holding me. Against me. Me alone. Me always.
