He clings. To whatever is left of himself, he clings.

I go down there, every now and then. Just to check on him. We were friends once, after all. I go to see if he's still breathing. Or if he'll say something. Or if he'll fucking eat something.

Over three months now since I made the toughest decision of my life. That's how long his hunger strike has lasted, and how long his voice has been silent.

He makes no sound when I approach. He shows no emotion or even recognition. He simply stares. At me, or maybe through me. I can't tell. His eyes. His fucking eyes. So much hate in those eyes. And so much sorrow.

So much determination, to outlast me, to outlive me.

To win.

You know what's worse than screams?

He stays down there almost all of the time lately. Down in the dungeon of my mind. The doors are not locked. He's free to come and go as he pleases. But he seems to prefer it down there. Or, at least, he prefers the darkness to the light.

His screams were so loud. They cut straight through me.

I feel for him. I really do. After all, I wouldn't be here if it weren't for him. Faced with that which neither of us could survive alone, the two of us together somehow pulled through. An unbeatable team bound, for a while at least, by parallel goals.

To endure. To live. To persevere. To exist.

To wait.

His screams were so piercing, but at least they showed strength. A will to keep trying, to keep fighting. His screams reminded me of those long-ago days and nights when we screamed together in horrible harmony.

You know what's worse than screams?

All I hear now is soft sobbing. And it keeps getting softer.

And now, now there's nothing but silence and the cold stare of a beaten man. A crumbled shell of a man who's world has been ripped from him. A man who's waiting to die.

Ready to die, in fact, but not until he knows that he'll outlive me.

To love so strongly, no matter what, to never stop...

I admire him as much as I pity him. That poor magnificent bastard...