• He was fine. Then he started to get sick. Everywhere he went, people got infected. So he had to stay home. He never got to see anyone, because he would drain them. He was like a disease, anyone who was with him spiraled down too. They got into bad habits and their dark side, the side that disables and breaks, takes over. He was left alone in his one room dungeon, and soon no visitors came. He watched the flower on the window sill died more everyday. Finally, the day he died he realized what he was. The dewy night and the cold grass squished underneath his feet. His mind had no wandering, there were no inquisitive thoughts. He lay on the wet grass, gazing up into nothing, and the grass beneath him begins to brown, he rolled over onto another spot. This lonely world he lived in never ceased, no one was ever immune.