"I don't need your pity" Dutch spat, but his breaking voice and the tears spilling over his cheeks betrayed him. He said 'pity' as if it were something revolting, a bad taste on his silver tongue. The pressure of the deaths, the gang life he lived, the constant fear of losing everything; had come crashing down on his shoulders. When he was trying so hard to keep everything together, it splintered apart in his grasp. Was it even worth anything?

The man hid his face into a sleeve, screwing his eyes shut like it would make everything go away in an instant. Hot tears running across his face, his hat knocking off his head to reveal his dark silky hair. "I can't do this." he finally admitted with a broken sob "I'm holding everything together, and somehow that is not enough." he tugged at his own hair in a stressed manner, keeping himself from a mental breakdown it seemed.