Keep Fighting
She did all she could to assuage his fits of melancholy. For hours on end, she would speak to him in an attempt to elicit some sort of response, any sign of life. At night, she prayed that his decadence would reach some sort of a hiatus and that they could attempt to live normally again. She tried not to take umbrage at his sharp tongue, not to be wounded by his constant assurances that she was more a petulant child than she was a compassionate friend.
He fought as hard as he could against the past, though he could not beat it away. At night, the shadows and ghosts around him simulated images of his past life, the life he had lost. Every lurid detail of how it had ended presented itself before him in the darkness. Somehow, he knew he had to transcend the darkness and enter again into the world of the living. Perhaps that dear friend of his could intercede with the shadows on his behalf. Or perhaps he would simply succumb to them, after all.
