He cried when he was alone. Every night, in his cell, curled up on his cot. I didn't know this at first. I heard the nurses talking about it. I thought afterward that I should have expected it. His eyes were just too bright when we spoke, too guarded, no matter how openly he spoke.
On the third day, after the "zombie revelation, I decided there was no harm in giving him non-toxic crayons and soft paper since he'd get restless in his room. I asked to see what he'd drawn after I found out about his nightly breakdowns. He was hesitant, but he brought them out from under his cot, handing them to me with a downcast face and eyes shining with repressed tears. There were dozens of pages, covered front to back with drawings. Profiles, silhouettes, full-body, even scenic images, all of himself with the tall cadaver or just the cadaver alone. Hanna gave him expressions; small ones, hardly noticeable at a glance, small smiles and little furrows in his brow. He wasn't a particularly good artist, but the emotion showed through well enough. When I looked at him, he gave me a faltering, sheepish smile.
"I love him, doc. He's all I can think about. I guess you know that, though, I probably talk your ear off about him…can't really remember 'cause of the meds. Do I talk abbot him a lot?"
"All the time, Hanna." My voice felt heavy. I heaved a sigh, handing the pictures back to him. "Every day. I know you love him. I just can't for the life of me figure out how or why."
"I didn't lie to you. He was as good as alive, and I loved him. Love him." His lip quivered. He bit it, hard. "I don't know how much longer I can take all this, doc."
I didn't know what to tell him. I didn't know what to do. All I knew was everything was so painful and unfair and I wanted to believe him more than I ever wanted anything. It was only when he cast me a determined stare that I realized I'd said the last part out loud.
"I'll make you believe me, somehow. I know I can. All I need is a sharpie marker."