He left--no swirl of a cape, no insane laugh, only a man who was old before his time, who only grew older with each new pain--heartbreak from lovers and sons, dreams crushed and nightmares renewed. And he still would come if asked. It hurt.
Life always hurt.
But at least he was alive to live--at least that what he kept telling himself, a habit left from the camps; he wondered when did the time come to actually to give up, and would he be able to break a lifetime of habit. He looked one last time, and knew it wasn't now, but soon, so soon.
Soon, no more pain.
Maybe no love left, but no pain as well.