Far better things have befallen unfortunate people. Even with thunder and lightning, you know there will be sun again. That is not the case for The Truthless Recluse.

Staring at the star-studded ceiling, he wonders what warmth used to feel like. The feeling of joy, of an embrace, not laced with poison words and pretty lies. The memory has all but faded, a faint glimmer of its former glory. Hot tears tracked down his near sunken cheeks, something he was so accustomed to that hen't need a reaction. Crying only seems appropriate. Even when he was so utterly exhausted from it. He wonders when he will have peace. When the gnawing, hateful thoughts whispered into his brain by the doubt and fear would cease, and let him breathe. A foolish thought.

A knock spurred him from his slow spiral of madness, though he didn't respond. He knew who it was. You. You have another attempt to quell the ache of despair in his gut with company. It meant nothing. For he knew why you showed up day in and day out. Fear. Fear of the very man, no monster that made him into this shell. You would be punished greatly for insubordination, so he allowed you to enter. Though he was getting sick of you, he would allow this delusion of company to entertain his broken mind.