If a man is broken, what does it take to rebuild? What will it take to put the pieces back together and get him moving again?
It's not as easy as it sounds. When he's broken, he falls. He falls from a world of bliss, a world of light and warmth to a world of shadows and cold winds. He lays there in the mud, soaked from the rain. The lightning doesn't even light this place, it's light is stolen and only the fierce crackles are felt through the air. He lays there, huddling in that shallow grave, cradling his broken heart, broken dreams, his tears mingled with the icy rain that pounds his weary frame. There are others there, but they don't see each other. They don't see past their pain. It blinds them, beyond just the eyes. It blinds them to warmth, to happiness, to the world outside their head. The water pours over open, unmoving, glassy eyes.
If you were to walk amongst them, you'd never sleep again. Their moans are the sounds of nightmares, their voices gone from screaming, only gutteral echoes of a past leak through their lips. The pictures of these broken bodies, once fine, strong men, will send shivers down your spine at every remembrance.
I have seen two of my friends here, in this dirty, hateful world. I was too afraid to help one, and I nearly lost him. This time, I will reach down, and pull him out of this premature grave. I will help him first to his knees, then to his feet. I won't let go until he can stand on his own. I will watch until the light returns, in earnest, to his eyes. I will usher him back into the world in which this soul belongs; one of light, not shadows: of warmth, not of cold. He will reach up, gather his strength from the storm, and become human again.


Hate. Pure, Dirty Hate.
It coursed through him.
Hate for this one, and that one. Over here, far away, everything. He wasn't in a good state of mind.
It got to him. It dug deep. The hate was just a seed for the tree of pain that was taking root in his mind. He had to dig it out.
Furious, he scratched at his face, trying to dig it out, trying to be like them.
But he hated them.
The slow pressure behind his eyes started to swell.
It was driving him mad, these feelings inside. He hated it. He wanted to kill it. Whatever it was. Hate? Sure why not? Why not hate that too? Let's hate hate.
Let's lash out needlessly at those we love. Let's ignore those close to us, because yeah, we hate them too. Let's strike pain and fear into the hearts of those we want to love us. Let's drive them away, so our demons can get in closer. Sure. Why not.
It wasn't like his life meant anything. It was just piles of ashes of pieces of other peoples lives that he had skipped to and from.
And he hated himself for that.
It itched again, that hatred in his mind. His knuckles white, he dug into his scalp until they came away bloody.
Someone, he thought, would need to happen along, or else this may be irrepairable.
And they needed to hurry.