It's Not My Fault

I'm the victim here. What happened to me wasn't my fault, and neither was the consequences of what happened anything I could have foreseen or have stopped. The Federal prosecutors who put me in this place didn't give you my side of the story because then you would see that I'm a victim just as much as those who died by my hands where, each of us mere victims of circumstance, of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, you know?

After all, I need to eat. From the night I walked through that mysterious pool of light deep in the forest and picked up whatever it was that infected me and turned me in to what I am today, I've had to find suitable meals to feed my unholy hunger, but then don't we all? Aren't we all victims of our endlessly-empty bellies? If you eat cows, deer, rabbits, fish, and other animals, how does that make you any different than I am? How is what you do to survive day to day any less horrible than the strange meat I'm forced to consume?

If you want to look at the bare facts of the matter; if you want to simply go by the raw numbers and the statistics of this thing, I could argue that one hundred percent of the animals you draw sustenance from died because of your hunger whereas my kill ratio is much smaller. I mean most of my “victims,” as the prosecutors keep calling them, walked away. A little dazed and maybe never to recover fully, I admit that, but most of them got up and walked away. Eventually.

The very few that died, well that wasn't my fault, and hopefully after you read my side of things you'll come to agree that it wasn't my fault.