I don't know when it degenerated to this mess. I know when it began, when he pressed rushed kisses to my hands and cheeks, and whispered that he needed me. I know how his face fell when I laughed. But I don't know how it came to this, me sobbing on my knees for him.
He was overly earnest. I never liked that about him, hated his innocence, his naivete. His eyes never dulled, not once, and it disgusted me, a little. It was a sad time. He should have been mourning. Even I, with my cold demeanor, mourned a little. For a few.
He prayed to me as if I was his saviour. I don't know why I cared. Here was the last hope of a lesser people, begging me to love him, to give him a chance. I never looked back. I never turned away from my destiny. I refused to be on the recieving end of green light. I refused to look into his eyes.
When he died, it was not unexpected. I watched him fade away, his body falling as if in slow motion. He stared at me. For a minute our eyes locked. And then he left me alone, a shell, a sobbing wreck of a boy; a child left to fend for myself in an unjust war. He stole me away with him. I watched him fall, and I mourned a little. For awhile.