Sometimes, words are not enough. Sometimes, there's nothing that will ever fill the empty gaping hole in the middle of your heart. Sometimes, there's nothing there at all. You're kneeling beside a body, the blood staining your clothes, and you look at the pale face and the unfixed eyes of your best friend and you can't even bring yourself to cry. All you feel is a cold emptiness and a surge of rage. A cold rage, like the biting winter wind, like the edge of darkness, like the vastness of space. In the end, there's nothing there but vengeance. All humanity is stripped away, leaving nothing more than a bitter icy core. Looking up at the mocking eyes of the one who has stolen more from you than anyone ever could, you can't keep yourself in check. Your arm moves of its own accord, whipping a kunai at the sardonic face. It's blocked with ease, but that was only a diversion. You have followed in the shadow of the blade and have your sword raised to even the score. You reckoned without his speed however, and you are parried. He is something more than human, something beyond mortal reckoning, and in the end you have become the perfect counterpart to him, for you are less than human now.
He has power and wisdom on his side, all you have is an icy anger that keeps you alive through all the wounds you have suffered. In the end, it's not enough, it never is. Anger can only take you so far, keep you going only so long. You are spent, and nothing remains. You've already lost everything and there's nothing more to lose. Sometimes, apathy is a stronger force than anything under the stars. Nothing matters anymore, and in the end, you are nothing more than a bag of bones and flesh. So you attack with reckless abandon, heedless of any consequences. You parry an attack with your left arm, losing it in the process. It however gives you an opening and you take it. A head falls upon the bloody ground. It is not yours. Your vision however begins to blur, your knees buckle, and you fall upon the muddy ground. You dimly feel water on your face and it tastes of salt, bringing back memories, but you don't care any more. Sometimes, you just want to be alone. Sometimes, death doesn't bring the release you wanted. There's no sense of satisfaction, there's no sense of despair, there's no sense of rightness that you've done something that needed to be done. Sometimes, there's just emptiness. Sometimes, that's good enough. Sometimes.