Here's a few more of his pieces throughout the book to give you and idea. At the moment, he is nameless, but clues are given to his identity as a character from the previous stories:
The thought nestled tightly in the gray matter of his brain. There would be more. If he didn’t want more, the other inside him would take.
And the other inside him was whispering again. Gentle, soft strokes of a voice kissed the inside of his soul. It warned him. It hated him. It was a part of him.
He sat in darkness. Waited. Drinking the black ink of eternity as though it would dampen the sensation of loss and greed. Greed. Powerful greed was more appetizing than safe logic. Logic didn’t exist in his brain any longer. Logic was dead like his body. Dead again.
A memory burst forth on the horizon like the dawning sun. Warm love
. The distance of the feeling ached in his core, but the inviting emotion strengthened his resolve. In moments such as this, he thought he could beat the other inside him.
made him strong. No. Not her. The memory
of her made him strong. She was different than the others. Pure soul – yes. But the soul was not what drew him. Was it?
The memory took a turn. The other inside him was consuming it. No!
He would not allow it to happen. He pulled the thought of her to the front of his brain. She was his. No one else was allowed to have her. The Siren.
Her song made him weak even in memory. That weakness allowed the other to devour the thought, feeling, emotion. It was too late. The memory faded with the descent of the sun. The grubby window reflected a slanted ray of light; falling over him like a judgment. He wanted no more. The other didn’t agree.
The old Éire. Another wraith. He wanted souls. Their consciousness mingled, tore apart, became two, then three, then one. The two fought; the one demanded. The demand was strong. Her soul would be his.
The Siren would die.
* * *
Something was wrong again. The morning had been fine. He had woken up to the singing of birds and the smell of fresh brewing coffee. His head had been clear, conscious, no sign of the other inside him. A good day, he would have said.
But the girl was there. She was new. No rare soul. Normal.
He had been seeing her a few nights a week. Young, slender, beautiful. She failed to see his underlying struggle whenever they were together. And he refused to see her whenever the other took control. It had been happening more and more often.
The girl came into his room bearing a cup of coffee. She looked worried when she sat next to him in bed. The sheets tangled around him, trapping him in place. Reaching out a blind arm, he swiped the mug from her. Burned his mouth. A curse flared. The girl shrank back.
He felt around for her. The softness of her thigh beneath his weary fingers. It melted into his memories. The pull of that warm love he’d once felt. The Siren again. She haunted his conscious. She was the only one he’d known. The other inside him would not have her; could not have her. He refused. The old Éire awakened. Enraged.
Hot greed and anger ripped through each muscle fiber, shredding his nerves and endurance. Without them, there was no control. Without control, there was only hate.
Choked shrieks. What had he done? The girl. He’d forgotten about her. Her slender neck was gripped between his powerful hands. She clawed at him. Nails ripped into his flesh, dragging the torn skin down to the muscle. Blood stained her fingers; dripped onto the carpet.
The fight dwindled. Her grip loosened. The body fell limp in his arms. Raw pain stung in his hands. They bled. He wept again.
Not her soul
. This time, a life without purpose.
Just sharing. Thought the style was worth a little revival.