It’d be easy to say it started with Hector’s suicide but that’s not true, really. He was only a piece; a piece of something inherent to here, and maybe everywhere. It’s still happening. Right now. And so on. Pushing itself forward. Because suicide goes on forever. The wrists always bleeding out. The feet always leaving the bridge. The rope always catching short. It never ever stops. Kinsfield is built on graves.
