James Wilson sat staring at the same file for twenty minutes before he realized he wasn't actually reading it. He was too preoccupied by the thoughts in his head. He sighed and gave up trying to read the file. Pulling himself up he headed out the balcony door. It was dry, and cold. The wind whipped his hair around, stinging his face with each lash. He couldn't decide if he was too cold to move or if he just couldn't move. Here he could feel something, even if it was the bitter December wind. How much longer would this go on? How long would he feel like someone had ripped his very soul from his body? He had felt loss before…But…this, this was, supernatural grief. Grief that had no bounds, grief that was a living, undulating beast hunting you through the caverns of your heart. There was no escape, no respite, no safe hold in which to hide. He didn't think he could resist the beasts wailing, gnashing, toothy maw any more. He felt a twinge, a brief hitch of the breath… He clenched his hands into fists, tightened his jaw, he fought it with all his might. His might wasn't enough; the beast well and truly had him now…He was sinking into the dank dark place of the creature's throat… He was breathing fast, he knew he was breaking, breaking into thousands of empty shards of Wilson, pieces were clinking like rain around him, bits of him were freezing like glass upon his cheeks. He fell to his knees. He gave up; he sobbed and sobbed, until he couldn't any more. He was defeated, the dragon had slain him.