He clawed desperately at the wall, knowing it was useless, but wishing he could escape. Wishing was useless, he realized, head falling forward to rest upon the damp wall. He sighed loudly, though no one could hear him.
Weary with toil I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind when body's work's expired;
Stormy gray eyes lolled closed wearily, as if they could remain open no longer. He could not bear to keep them open. There was nothing to look upon. No one for those stormy gray eyes to smile lovingly at. That person had not been there for so long.
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
But he could not forget what they looked like. He saw them whenever he closed his eyes. His heart wrenched when he did so, longing, yearning, craving, for that vision to be a reality. Wanting to reach out and touch that pale, scarred face so badly that it made his head and chest ache. Pining to look into those golden suns again.
And yet, he wished he could forget. Desired nothing more than to never close his eyes. Never wanted to have to see the face of the one person he could never have again. Who would never love him again.
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which like a jewel hung in ghastly night
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
He sunk down, back against the wall, now, head buried in his skeletal hands. Hot tears burned down his cheeks. His face was the only part of him that was warm. The rest was bitter cold, chalky, icy, white skin, stretched over bones, straining to cover them.
He was hungry. But he would not eat. He was tired. But he would not sleep. Was lonely, but had no company. He had nothing. Had no one. Was a nothing. Was no one. He deserved what he got.
A soft whimper escaped his lips. He wanted nothing more than to forget, now. Forget and collapse into the serenity of insanity that had claimed so many of the other occupants. It seemed so very appealing.
Lo, thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.
But he did not. For memories still lay fresh in his mind, like dew on an early spring morning. And he wouldn't mar them for the world.
Italics are Sonnet XXVII, as in Shakespeare.