My heart goes out to him. His voice is diminished and weak, once full of spirit and sarcastic banter. The weight of his atmosphere starts to pull me down as we continue to converse. Despite my desperate searching, I am unable to find the old flame in his eyes, instead finding a melancholy blue, the remnants of a torn up heart that once lived and loved, fiercely and passionately. I feel the tears sting my eyes as the prospect of losing my brother tightens its vice-like grip around my heart.
He continues to speak, noticing nothing of his surroundings. He does not see how his own broken heart is breaking his mother's. He does not see how his little sister cries fearfully, praying for the return of her old beloved brother. He does not even see the tears of his father--the man whose hardened heart does not usually permit even a single tear to fall onto his thickened skin. But the father, seeing his biggest pride in life thus extinguished, feels a sadness that rocks him to his very core, and crumbles the foundation of his strength.
No, the young man sees nothing of this. He continues to speak, staring at some far off point on the ground, his words sounding lifeless and broken. And when his will to speak was run dry, he simply turned and walked away.
