His earliest memory was vague, like a charcoal sketch by an unsteady hand. A crack of a rifle. Muffled shouts. The murderer's face in stark relief against a thunderous background, all black and orange and red. And the pain, striking deeper than just his flesh and bone, though he couldn't recall what had caused such anguish.

He remembered that it had killed him, at least.

Perhaps it ought to have irked him that his earliest memory was his death. He didn't think it was cause for regret. All he felt was rage at whatever fool had buried that bullet in his chest, and pleasure that he could now exact revenge. Having a high calling was helpful like that.

But still, on quiet days, when the old bullet wound burned more like a branding iron and less like Hell, and his mind was clearer, he would wonder about this memory. Sometimes he tried to think of what had led up to his death, to no avail. Sometimes he merely speculated. If he had died once before, his present self was certainly different from his original self. He must have been a fool, to be shot and killed so easily – he must have been a sorry sight. Far too trusting of others. Couldn't slit a man's throat before he cocked the gun. He was so pathetic he might even have been human, once.

On quiet days like those, he hated himself.