For the longest moment, I simply sat beside Donald and looked at him. He was a picture of pain and misery, staring down at his hands silently and looking like a part of him had just died. Silent tears pooled in his eyes, and several times his breath caught in his chest.
This was not the Donald I had known in the months plus I had spent here. No smiles. No bashful personality. No contagious laughter. He just looked...empty. Broken.
I wanted to help him; I really did. But I didn't know what I was supposed to do. I didn't know whether to pat him on the back, or to tell him everything was going to be okay. But when I tried to put myself in his shoes, I thought it would be best to let him get it all out.
Pain is a slow poison; it eats you up from the inside slowly, and curls itself around
