The night was cold, the moon only a white sliver in the dark sky. Black bushes around him rustled, jostling about in the midnight breeze.
He looked up to the sky.
He had been too late. Too slow. Not fast enough.
He could have saved him.
But he didn't. He had let that damned thing eat him and now he was dead.
The man could feel some wetness around his eyes. He didn't care. He didn't care about anything, really, anymore.
The night was cold.
He could feel the invisible icicles stabbing themselves into him, breaking him and shattering him into millions of tiny pieces.
But he didn't care.
He couldn't stop the tears. Or the cold. Or his death.
...
"Lewis, I'm sorry."