Rage was everything. Everything and nothing, because he was rage, and because he nothing. Nothing and everything because he could feel. He knew he shouldn't be feeling, but it was all he could ever do.
He wasn't always sure what exactly he was feeling, or whether or not he was supposed to feel that way. But he knew that some people were more feely than others, and she was definitely more feely than the rest of them. But he also knew that some people didn't evoke any emotion, and he knew that meant he would soon be dead inside, and all he would have left to do is kill.
She doesn't know how he watches her, wondering when she will fall apart. Maybe it was only because he was dying, that he knew she was dead.
"You'd like to think you've always been this way."
Perhaps it would be easier if he had always been dying, or even if he had thought he was dying. His former thoughts- thoughts of life- had always been his salvation, but now his thoughts of impending death kept him alive.
The bitter irony of those words, or maybe they were thoughts, was not lost on him. Maybe it would have when he was desperately clinging to life, but his past disgusted him. And his own disgust brought tears of rage and embarrassment to his eyes.
Rage was his one prominent emotion; it burned him all day long, and prodded his mind and body during the sleepless nights that he spent raging. When he closed his eyes, he could see it, and he imagined he was one with the fire. A fire as red as her silky hair that flickered around her face, the same fire that would flicker over her dead eyes, and her dead hand would push it out of the way. He often wondered why it never burned her, but always found he knew the answer. It could consume her mind, her heart, but never her body, that was his.
It made him angry that the dead couldn't have attachments, or else she would be his mind, body and soul. Just like he was hers- mind, body, and soul. Sometimes he did wonder when she had died, and why she had died. Because he surely knew that he had rescued her all those years before. His ignorance was more infuriating than anything had been before. He wished so, that someone would tell him, what he needed.
The rage would just well up inside him sometimes, and he found that he wanted to break things, and stab things, and that he would often vomit- that made him feel dirty- but it would never go away because he was rage.
The rage distorted his mind, and he would see things that he would have never seen before- like her. But now that he knew she was there, he wanted her to be his. Because she was like him. And everyone knew that a panther couldn't marry a bear. Perhaps he was still thinking like the living. Surely the dead did not think of this. Maybe they thought about what the living had but didn't deserve.
He knew had to tell someone what he knew, and he wished that she would talk to him. He knew she would understand.
Fin.