One quickly learnt not to cry, down there. There was no comfort in the bleach-white bones of a building or the starched suits and uniforms of the other inhabitants. You quickly learnt that nothing really mattered, because if you liked something enough then they would find out and it would be taken away. That's the way life was, down there.

Sparse.

Insane.

He was the one everyone looked up to. The best one, the quickest one, the favourite. You all secretly hated him for the affection and attention that he garnered in this black hole of neutrality, secretly loved him for existing.

You had been the favourite's favourite, the hero's sidekick, the roommate of the best. In that, you gained a few freedoms - not that you felt you needed them.

You came to enjoy them, though, and cherish them.

When the pains came upon you - the sudden madness that took everyone wearing the collars every once in a while - you would shake and cry in a cocoon of sheets and his body warmth while the voices resounded in your head. Your nails would mark his arms where you clutched at them, and he wouldn't say a word.

You liked to think that he cared about you.

You loved him up until the moment that you realized that it was that dog looking out through his eyes and he would kill you.

And he did.

Afterwards (after after after the pain) you still loved him like nothing else, because even that pain, the pain of dying, was not as bad as the pain of being alone.

How can you leave him alone, now?